The Youth as Atlas

The wisdom flung high

on whitewashed walls

of old, we read

them in history textbooks.

High school

in the brick buildings

with fog-rimmed windows

in perpetuum they taught

us. The desks taught us

"fuck this place".

Equally true,

so acidic

in our basic bodies

they crumble 

under the weight of

the globe-

only Atlas had it in him

to hold up the universe

on his back- 

this geography of

ancient myth.

This decoding

of in-between lines.

Our papers

due on a cryptic far-flung

date in May. 

The slick lab tables

and unending bunsen burners

which ignited with the smell

of gas- or was it failure?

As those milleniums-old

flint pieces struck out

toxic harmonies

but couldn't strike,

could not conjure flame.

The hazy fumes

of adolescence burning bright;

Burning fast.

The long halls

with mottled floors.

Scuffed with crumpled tests

lying in wait in darkened

corners under stairs

with make-out parties.

Our dimly cast reflections

spoke in echoey quivers

across crusty PA speakers

irrevocable 

in the land of forsaken

and failing Atlases.