Author: spk68

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.

We are on the ferry from
New London, Connecticut
to
Orient Point, New York.
It’s 12 noon on Saturday
February 7th
2004.

We are tired because the previous
evening, turned into a long,
long night. We settle
into our seats to catch a
short nap as the ferry
traverses Long Island Sound.

He is an electrician from
Laurel, New York. He does the
wiring for Century 21 on the
North Fork.

They are a middle aged lesbian
couple from Southold, New York
who have been recently relocated
to Rhode Island by their employer.

As I drift in and out of sleep,
the conversation begins
about the couple’s dog
and meanders from
the skyrocketing property values on the East End
to
East End traffic
to
the good old days on the East End
to
fishing on the East End
to
drinking and driving on the East End
to
the current state of the East End electrical
installation business which is being
overrun by people from the wrong side
of Long Island. You know the type, the
scumbags with long hair, tattoos and
no respect for themselves or anything.
Sometimes…I am truly amazed by
what I hear in public places.
In this case, I am
amazed in three ways.

I am amazed, first of all, because people lack the
ability to talk quietly among themselves. If I
recall correctly, this was a lesson taught
in First Grade or
perhaps Kindergarten.

I am amazed because people lack the ability to keep
their bigotries and dirty little beliefs to
themselves. They prefer to fly them
high and proud
like amber waving patriotic flags.

Finally, I am amazed because people lack the ability
to recognize the fact that not all people with long
hair and tattoos from the wrong side of Long Island
are scumbags.

Some people with long hair and tattoos
from the wrong side of Long Island own pens
and have a very good memory for
things that they overhear
on the noon ferry traveling from
New London, Connecticut to Orient Point, NY.

Some people with long hair and tattoos
from the wrong side of Long Island
aren’t scumbags at all.

They have careers. Sometimes, more than one.
They pay exorbitant Long Island property taxes which
means *GASP* that they own a home.
They have beautiful, supportive wives.
They love animals of all shape, size and manner.
They feed the birds outside of their winter windows.
They donate items to the Salvation Army.
They give hitchhikers twenty bucks because they can’t
give them a ride to the other side of town.

Saying that people with long hair and tattoos
from the wrong side of Long Island are scumbags
is the equivalent of me saying that every
electrician from Laurel, NY is a bigot.
I am sure there are perfectly pleasant, humane,
understanding, compassionate, open minded
electricians from Laurel, NY.

I will not let your bigotry color my vision.

Postscript:
If you will note, I was very specific about
recording your occupation, your hometown, the company
that you do work for, the date, the time and the
direction of our shared ferry ride. I did all of
these things, because I have faith that someone,
somewhere, at some point in time will recognize you,
give you a copy of this poem and that you might,
for one frozen second,
realize just how offensive
you and your words were
on February 7th 2004,
on the noon ferry from
New London, Connecticut
to
Orient Point, New York.

Post Postscript:
I am no longer naive enough to
believe that my words here will
change the way you think,
but as a matter of self preservation
you should definitely pursue
whispering lessons before
a less sympathetic
scumbag from the wrong
side of Long Island
with long hair, tattoos
and a short, ill temper
forces you to
swallow your teeth.

Images
among
images
thousands
of fleeting
video
vision
the networks
use to instill
us with horror,
fear,
anger,
sorrow
and hate.

I am
possessed
by one
of a young child
at an anonymous
candle vigil
looking toward his
mother,
her smiling,
he leaning
to cradle
his head
in the soothing
arc of her neck
and shoulder
and
of
the children
unnamed
uncounted
who have
lost
their
soothing
arc
of flesh
of smile
of soul.

My rebellion
has dwindled
into minor
stances
of impropriety.

I refuse
to mail out my
monthly bills
in a timely manner.

I refuse
sobriety,
I need nights
of dionysian
madness.

I refuse
to park properly
in the lot
at work.

I refuse
to allow
the utility company
into my basement to
read the gas meter.

I refuse
to wear socks
to work.

And as you are all
probably well aware
by now,
I refuse
to cut my
lawn on a weekly
basis,
I have grown fond
of the strandy
weeds crowned
with yellow
flowers.

Yes…
quite the
rebel you…
Have the Zapatistas
contacted you yet
to lead the next
insurrection?

Having only three dollars in one’s wallet
prevents the purchase
of your usual brand of cigarettes
and
sends one in sullen quest of bulk pipe tobacco to assuage
the nicotine monkey until payday.

Having only three dollars in one’s wallet
and a nearly empty fuel tank,
means I cannot be driving all over God’s creation
in search of pipe tobacco
and
so, I try my usual two minutes away
convenience beer smoke re-supply store
and
discover that my Pakistani friends have no idea
about the words pipe and tobacco when spoken
in close combination
and
so, I drive to the local tobacconist
and
see him roll up his OPEN flag and lock the door
while I wait at a red light on an adjacent corner
and
so, in a thick sweltering post rainfall steam,
I drive on toward the mega country wide super
supposed to have it all department store
and
I think my eyelids are sweating.
and
the mega country wide super supposed to have it all department store
has one pouch of my brand left on it’s dwindling near empty shelves
but,
having only three dollars in one’s wallet
prevents the paying the three dollar and forty nine cent
plus 8.25 percent sales tax
and
so, I return home
jittery
sweating
and
defeated
my wallet still fairly bulging with its three dollar treasure trove.

A boy stooping
to scribble
in the still damp
float smooth
sidewalk repair
out front.

I prepare a
GET THE FUCK
OUT OF MY
MOTHERFUCKING
WET CEMENT
YOU IDIOT
remark,
pause to reconsider
(That’s a remark
some bitter
half crazed
half drunk
old man rains
down on
unsuspecting
children
from a broken
down second story
haunted house window)
and
with the bellowing
voice of Abraham
let the remark fly
on the breeze.

The lad beats
feet on one of
them new fangled
scooter gizmos
and
I smile
crookedly
another
cold beer
cradled in
my hand.

It’s one of those
days when beer
lacks teeth
and
the mind spins
hopelessly
pining
for
the
insulation
of
raw
emotion
wires.

It’s one of those
days when dogs
pace uneasily under
desks and the skies
alternate
doom
with
stepped
rage
flashings
and
then
sheeting
downpours.

It’s one of those
days when a
welcome guest
has left,
you appreciate
the return of
quiet routine
yet
face again
the nagging sting
of loneliness.

It’s one of those
days when
Death stops by
for a lobster salad
sandwich
and
denies your repeated
pleas to tag along
during today’s rounds.

It’s one of those
days where
the reason for existence
has been toed beneath
the sofa with
jingle bell cat toys
and
47 soda caps.

It’s one of those
days which
will beg
a deathbed
request for
a “do-over.”

Finally,
we are
all running
figuratively
or
actually.

Figurative mind
flights
of
pain
seducing
sedation,
hallucination
and memory
assassination.

Or actual flight
to far secular
and
holy
pilgrim
destinations
seeking…

Running
running
running
until
Maw
calls
us
home
(ash
dust
and
earth.)