As they swarmed about seeking sweet, I sluiced them
with hot tap water from a pickle jar until they swirled down
the drain.
Thus went my brief battle with this Spring’s ant
population that always seem to find our kitchen in
April, but what is a brief battle to some is to others
a tragedy that is still unfurling it’s full fury.
Who am I to know there are not now ants in the
ant equivalent of a pub, say an empty can of creamed
corn behind the garage, sitting on a sliver of wood, leaning
against the bar singing doomed, Irish flavored fighting
songs, And on the fine gray morning a thousand went forward but
only three returned and the banshees do wail?
Or ant poets, deep in a woody maze, are penning long, tragic
elegies comparing the slaughter to Wounded Knee or
My Lai, Babi Yar, Today gentle reader at the Battle of the White
Porcelain Farm Sink, thousands died because they were merely
ants, merely ants seeking sweet and lo we shall and
must remember these ants, remember and never forget, for
if we forget, it shall happen again.
Or two ants on the ant equivalent of a street corner arguing
over the tragedy, I told you never to trust the White Man. He is
devious and bent upon our destruction. This massacre at
the White Porcelain Farm Sink only serves to further demonstrate
this truth and I do not see why you are going to stand there and
defend the dastardly deeds of this demon. I mean come on, how
much more of The White Man’s shit are going to swallow? While the
other ant nods dejectedly and says maybe you’re right.
Or a lone ant says I hope he doesn’t swish me down the sink with
hot water from that pickle jar because I am the re-incarnation of
his Uncle Bob and I sure wish he would just put down that pickle
jar and realize there are people here he knows and he should
be more respectful and maybe he should look at Buddhism or
Hinduism a little bit closer because it is all…but before he can
say TRUE he is swished down the sink with hot water from the
pickle jar and the truth will never be revealed to me and I have
inadvertantly killed the truth by swirling these ants down the
drain with scalding hot water from a pickle jar.
I’ll bet you never wagered
that was how the truth died.
At least now when someone asks you after witnessing lies
misdeeds, deceit, plagiarism whatever happened to
truth? You can say Steven Kramer killed truth at The
Battle of the White Porcelain Farm Sink, May 3rd 2006.
THE MIND ATTIC 