Moby Dick
I am halfway through
Moby Dick, the painting
by Pollock, and, again
I can’t finish the damned
thing—too large and too much
time he spends dissecting
every bit of blue. I mean
how many harpoons and turning
flukes does a world need?
I am stranded in the upper left hand
corner for like a week before
I begin to descend and when
I reach the roiling mess
of what seems to be fire
and mountains and men
and black fins, a pair of feet
or two, and Queequeg’s sacred
map of the back of the world,
I think, I am such a Starbuck.
I should have watched a movie,
or started the painting from the bottom,
where I knew it would end
2 comments:
There are worse things than dying a Starbuck.
You could be buying a Starbucks.
I will think of this when I drink a latte.
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