call me Ishmael

call me such, though
I will not answer,
nor tell the Story
of good and evil,
if those things be,
they are not among the stars,
the stones, the fishes, the sea  

vagabonds, all
they ride the whaled waves  
that drown
the Captain’s words
they are there for the bread  
not to break it

still He howls louder
the salt waters cut the keel black,
swishing quiet, unknowing as the night  
only He creates this plaintive plight  
the others hoist sails to wily winds
untroubled by their enchantment    
bellies full, ears shut
to His harpooned harangues, while
His eternal curse is to parse
black from white