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