Breaking Through on Steinbeck’s Toilet

A creak of hull, an ocean sigh,
I sit on the Western Flyer.
Near the deck where sardines die,
On the throne all men require.

The ship once bore old Steinbeck’s pen,
And Ed Rickett’s unbridled thought.
A vessel where science and writing blend,
And limits were forgot.

The Sea of Cortez is science and art,
The Log, careful not to soil it.
All I can muster: a squeaky fart,
A squeaky fart on Steinbeck’s toilet!

The porcelain sways with every swell,
A rhythm of ocean grace.
This bouquet of biological smells,
A hymn to Neptune’s space.

Years ago, I often sat upon a similar briny can,
Had whim and no misgiving.
Now I am a middle-aged man,
Zorba’s Full Catastrophe of living.

On this pot I rise to higher realms,
This latrine dispenses tickets.
A poet’s perch, a poet’s helm,
To verse with Steinbeck and Ricketts.

“I suspect now that the pattern is universal, we fail to see the transcending simplicity of it only because of obstacles on our inward horizons”

E.F. Ricketts,
“The Philosophy of Breaking Through”