NEW YORK — I am a welder at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. After work I cart unused pieces of scrap metal to my garage in Bensonhurst. On weekends I fire up my torch.
A friend at the yard told a reporter about the pieces I’ve been working on and the reporter showed up at my door.
A couple of days later the story was in the paper. It began like this: Anton Kovak writes poetry with an acetylene torch. On weekends, in his garage, the Navy Yard welder forges abstract works of stark force.
I liked the way he put that – “writes poetry with an acetylene torch.” I figured the New Yorker would show up at my door next and then maybe someone from the Museum of Modern Art.
That never happened. So what I just shamelessly repeated about my “abstract works of stark force” is probably the last anyone will ever hear of them – or me.