Generation Atlas

Is this really how we're fated?
Is this truly what we're meant for?
Broken hearted generation--
Was this what we wanted--
     Is this what we hoped for?

     Broken backs and weakened spirits
     Voices failing, fading
     In the Monolithic grip
    Of vampiric, clutching claws?

The zeitgheist grows old, now
          Wears thin
...but he sticks around somehow...
     well beyond his welcome.
And we--too busy?--
Making his supper?
     Bringing his slippers
Cleaning the messes he makes?--
          To toss him out by the throat?

Might we get to the bottom
If we weren't getting to bottoms of bottles?

Pressed into murky, miring belief,
we've breathed mud for how long?
Mud
   From the bottoms of boots
     under legs, tiring
     under arms, aching
   from supporting the Magic Fabric--
   spellbinding and rendered "sacred"
   by a forcing of definitions to melt.

We've breathed the mud we're pressed into
     --for HOW long!?--
From bottoms of General Issue
working boots our loving fathers wore
          boots beneath their brows
          above their shoulders
          beside their arms which are ours
Arms aching
     from supporting
          the weight
               of the way the world evolved
Atlas shrugs?
Not likely.

Atlas does as commanded
And Atlas follows commands to stay content

Shoulders the weight of his own world
by the order of whim

While a white, unwelcomed zeitgheist
Rests atop and eats his fattening fill

Smiling, he intones, "Feel nothing--feel content."

Sobbing silently, Atlas mouths,
       "Amen."

(October 25, 2010)