Shut up Here in This Caved Trunk of a Room, On the  Massachusetts Side of a Loose-Fish Land We Call America — and Feeling All at Sea In a World That Is Mad and Wet All Over  I Write down   This,  My Heathen Language. Making waves. Much   INK OIL WAX SPERM BLOOD  Spilled to find the White Whale — Whose mighty tail-flukes billow the sea’s shroud; whose peck-slaps flap and flood six hundred pages of Great American Prosody; whose massive genitalia remind us of Fallen Nature; who