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07/15/08 - (3)
The Curse of the Pequod I have good and I have bad nights, Depending on how I decide to define loneliness, Take solitude on the chin. If you wish to know the cold truth, I'll tell you. It's all about floating in a freezing ocean, For more than fifteen minutes, and enduring hypothermia, Surviving until Captain Ahab's Pequod Happens to pass by, On its collision course with destiny's divine albino leviathan, And picks up what's left of my Ishmael ego — Abraham and Hagar's outcast son — Relegating my diasporan vestiges to the rat-infested bilge. Oh, in case I forget to tell you, Stuff like what I've just described happens on my good nights. My bad nights are paradise sprayed with Agent Orange, Gethsemane undergoing Rachel Carson's silent spring, Suffering from an acute toxification — DDT — Wilting after the explosion of Hiroshima's Little Boy. If you were to ask me about this particular night, I'd have to admit, unequivocally, That it's one of the, if not the, worst in my entire history. "Why?" you might be tempted to ask. Because, tied to the mainmast of the Pequod, I can feel the unworldly thrust and surge of Moby Dick, Swirling the waters, creating a violent whirlpool, Tugging the lumbering, creaking, groaning tons down, Dragging me to the bottom of my lonely, desolate soul.
07/15/08 - (3)
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