Archive
04/29/10
Whaling
The wind is so tempestuously pitched, this twilight, Where I'm sitting, by myself, on this café's outdoor patio, I feel as if I'm in the Pequod's buffeted crow's-nest,
Expecting, any second, to sight, off to port or starboard, The slightest rippling, spuming, roiling of the ocean's surface, Redolent of the frightful white leviathan that's been shadowing me
Ever since the first nautical mile or three out of Mystic's seaport, On the welling, swelling, belling high tide, Heading directly into the full moon's jittery gold reflections.
Strange that I should be touched by such preternatural intimations, Premonitory visions, visitations of maritime paranoia, In the midst of this urban world that insulates me from danger.
It feels so weird, queer, curious, perplexing, disturbing, surreal, To gaze out on this vertiginously busy four-way intersection, With myriad vehicles passing through its red/yellow/green lights,
And see, instead, pods of migrating whales, Fleets of vessels going in urgent search of precious ambergris — The ichor of the gods, capable of keeping lanterns fired.
Lost in my navigations, I question whether I'm in or out of my mind. Could it be that I'm the white whale I've been chasing, Who's diving, driving to the heart of my drowning soul?
04/29/10
|
|||
|
|||
