OCTOBER 28TH

In the scrap yard
Beneath the train
Among the wreck
A tremendous arm
Drags languorously
I have a head cold
And one stopped
Up nasal passage
I can’t finish this
Simple crossword
As a Hasidic man
With a frayed tie
Sits on an orange
Seat sleeping like
A baby scratching
Himself unawares
It’s only eleven
But I’ve finished
My day’s teaching
Am headed home
To A Clockwork
Orange or Todd
Solondz’s movie
Storytelling which
Has been deemed
Unwatchable by
My usual partners
My nasal passage
Slowly unclogging
As the other builds
Arriving home to
My sister leaving
No tea just lemon
In scalding water
My ears perk to
Frantic meowing
From down below
Meaning the cats
Are in the airshaft
Meaning someone
Left the bathroom
Door open again

ATSUKO TANAKA

Out of the drizzle
Thursday, October
Into a movie about
Time travel, one
Of my favorite film
Genres, alone, which
Is a little morose I
Suppose, but I’ve been
Feeling unaccountably
Optimistic of late
Manifold confusions
Held unobtrusively
In the gray matter
Out of the movie
Which was terrific
And into the Grey
Gallery for a show
By the late Atsuko
Tanaka, who in 1956
Decided to say no
To pettiness, scratch
That, no to prettiness
And now it is 2004
And Tanaka is gone
Or at least deceased
Though much of her
Work is very alive
In New York City
Her electric dress
Periodically flaming
And I am hungry
Having forgotten
To eat lunch, so I
Slip back out into
The unoffending
Rain, Washington
Square Park, past
The tempting thrift
Of vendor hotdogs
And into West 4th
To take the F back
Home to Brooklyn
Where last night’s
Leftovers beckon
And there’s a book
About ventriloquism
I’ve been meaning
To get my eyes on

A FEW PERFECTLY READABLE SENTIMENTS ABOUT DOGS

October’s feeling a bit
Like February today
Park-dwellers huddled
In the sun they so lately
Forsook, a London Plane
Tree decorating the lawn
With its leaves, tonight
Vice-Presidents debate
Sitting down because
One of them resembles
A troll, we all cough
As a dog is suffocating
The air with the surplus
Of his golden brown coat
His owner brushing it
Into the now blustery
Morning wind, asshole
That he is, noon light
Penetrating the boughs
I have places to be
But not much to do
Before I reach them
My vile olive pants
Refusing to look good
With my blue shoes
It takes such Negative
Capability, as Brenda
Coultas said, to hold
These vastly opposite
Americas in mind, we
Are positively cowed
By the gaping crevice
In our midst, any dim
Ray of real empathy
Brusquely throttled
By fear, time to live
In the crevice thinks
I, to make our camp
Among the ricochet
Of words, now here
I go again getting all
Grandiose and worked
Up and ruining a few
Perfectly readable
Sentiments about dogs

FLOOD PLAIN

I see so goddamn much
These days, eyes flitting
From billboard to bum
A few sunning turtles
To the newsstand skin
Which gleams as I recall
What an unattractive
And fictitious man
Once said, I refuse to
Discriminate between
Different modes of
Knowing, no veritable
Filter for the eye
Though the mind
Of course carries on
Clandestine, as when
At the Met, standing
Before a Balthus, I
Swore I saw the slutty
Girl from Dawson’s
Creek across the room
And suddenly I’m in
Front of Yves Tanguy’s
The Satin Tuning Fork
With its silly distance
And next I’m floored
By Guston’s agonizing
Pinks, which return
Among the yellows
Of Joan Mitchell’s
Sunflowers, the kind
That dwarf Van Gogh
With their brutality
I head up to the roof
Upon which Andy
Goldsworthy has set
Tremendous wooden
Breasts moored by
A tower of stones
Everyone’s talking
On their cell phones
And I try to read
Some, but my mind
Keeps peering out
From behind my eyes
Which dutifully scan
As my hands slowly
Roll and then unroll
A flimsy floor plan
Which I now notice
Resembles flood plain