Authors note: this is still a work in progress

The voice of the sea is growing silent,
The voice of the sea is quickly becoming canceled in still culture.
The frozen fingers of the sea are tightening around the vocal-cords of its singers.
The land of the rising sun casts a mute shadow over the artic symphony.
Harpoons become flaming arrows that pierce the heart of the ancient song of Ishmael.
There are no more sharks in the water,
They are all on board with smiles for the canceled meat,
On Wall Street,
In Tokyo
With dollar bills shoved up their noses waiting for the next snow storm
Whose skin is the images of TV reality
Whose eyes are churches of the voided God of consumption
Whose teeth pierce the skin of those Northern Seas
And into the Baghdad sands,
Whose shit buries
Coney Island’s last stand
or the prostitutes of Time Square’s past.
Whose stomach ingests the genius of descent.

.

2

What iron hand of industry washes over the northern waters
Where the Gemini dagger washes in with the Eastern flow to know the flesh of the fathers of the sea,
To guardians of the oceanscapes
then dissolves into the red tide.
But the time of the old Eastern fishermen are growing short as they look to vanish into the mercury backwash.

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