It was never about the whale.
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.
Too small, too insignificant a leviathan
This is the horror of the pen,
the nightmare of revision
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?