The sea is my home.
The waves are the bones,
and the tides are coming to take me,
pull me under, so that I can once again
be a part of Leviathan.
Set sail for who knows where.
The wind is still my brother.
The sun is my father,
the stars: my sisters,
the ocean: my steadfast mother.
I will travel as far as I can,
'til the earth is entwined with the heavens.
I'll live with no fear,
my mind will be clear,
even though I'm all sixes and sevens.
I'm chasing an ominous beast
whose body is whiter than snow.
Set a course, headed North by North-East.
If the breeze rests, my crew will all row.
This isn't obsession, it's honesty.
The beast is everywhere and nowhere.
The storm looks at me ominously,
but it's out there. I can feel it.
I must go there.
I have a terrible secret.
I'm in fact not hunting whales,
in Davey Jone's Locker.
Abstractions and artistic concepts
have tainted this subject proper.
Whales are not a swimming beast, to me.
Instead, they are two things:
On the one hand, they are a blank canvas;
On the other, methods of thinking.
They are potentials, infinite and real,
unreachable, honest expression,
artistic in nature, impossible to represent,
for all art is simply refraction.
Great men, to those we have trusted
to tell what expressions are are better,
arbitrary and immoral practice.
Expression cannot be measured.
We hunt the whiteness, not the beast,
and here, I know, I must die.
My attempt to represent honestly
will always result in an artistic lie.
released December 23, 2016
all rights reserved