It was never about the whale.

The desperation

hot and sick

boiling his bowels


all of this

slipping in and out of panic,

white knuckles, clenched jaws,

gorge burning his throat

even the hate,

that great grey fog of the soul

myopic destroyer of the periphery

Focus without the benefit of depth

Stuck fast, barbs set,



Ahab thought it was about a whale.

A whale!

Too small, too insignificant a leviathan

This is the horror of the pen,

the nightmare of revision


This we,

the leaking ship

shored with the timber of narrative

Beset by crushing depths below and endless void above,


buoyed only by the strength of the stories we tell ourselves,

what man wouldn’t hunt the beast that defies this paper illusion,

That mocks our tales of bravery

What man wouldn’t seek to destroy any monster that dares suggest we are not us?