The Cartographer’s Guild encouraged me in my map making. Since then I noticed how maps disinter our understanding of the world. Maps do not show us where things are or where things were. They reveal who we are and how we think.
Take Hecataeus:
He’s missing a couple two or three continents. His world is all he sees.
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As an aficionado of Gilded Age America, I covet all things wood, brass and leather. I made a board about it on my Pinterest immediately after receiving my confirmation e-mail last June. If you scroll through, you’ll see a lot of steampunk but that’s only because steam-punky things take up a very small sliver of Gilded Age lore. There’s also tons of stuff you might find at The Art of Manliness site or even the old Whiskerino themes. Basically, some day I want to work in an office that crosses that of Indiana Jones:
Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest having to do with prose. I realized January 19ththat I will turn twenty-four in three months, and since I started writing some poems before it’s too late: forty-six poems at twenty-three. I’ll post each Friday until the last week of March, then I’ll post one a day until my birthday on April 30th. Here’s number 23:
The Man Who Could Fly had abandoned his hope
When the sun rose in colors of slate
He ached for the world he aspired to save
As black stratus rolled in on a slope
Not for our wretched deflated events,
Nor for our own pessimists
But for the rest of his body’s support
Did he wish for another new force.
He had giant wings that glided fair well,
His back muscles flapping both strong
But none of the rest of his figure supported
The sound of that unhappy song
When he hoisted up, he flew overhead
Above stratus, puffed cumulous clouds
His breathing adjusted to his dizzy head
But still did he feel unindowed
The problem came forth while descending to land
With grass, hills, treetips rushing forth
He hadn’t a way to slow down or to berth
He hit, then heard grinding like sand
His femur collapsed under gravity’s force
His tibula turned into twigs
His ribcage collapsed when his torso attended
His lower half, melting like snow.
And in his degenerate landing-gear mode
A crowd gathered round just to sneer:
“We asked you to save us, to fly us all home!”
He cried over burst landing gear.
