poem of the day 08.17.11

artists every one

we’re all artists
he always said
though i found it hard to believe him
sitting on the couch
smoking cigarettes
crushing them out in a massive
gray, ceramic ashtray
drinking beer after beer
watching seinfeld reruns
we were all artists
every one of us
the two writers who didn’t write
the two musicians who couldn’t
make a sound
all artists he’d say
i guess he could say that
he was every kind of artist
one week he was a painter
one week he was a writer
the next month he was making films
i never saw him do a stitch of art
from where i was sitting on the couch
he smoked a lot of cigarettes
and watched dawson’s creek
we’re all artists, he’d say
sitting there
every one of us
brilliant undiscovered geniuses
he was going to draw
he was going to sculpt
we should do a literary journal
because we’re all artists
hold readings throughout the city
get an artist’s commune going
this whole city is filled with artists
he’d tell me
as we smoked cigarettes
and watched old episodes of friends
he’d wait for my response
i knew i didn’t like this city for a reason
i’d say
but he never listened
because the next week he was a dancer
or an actor
he was a comedian
and one time he thought that he
was gay
but whatever he did
he knew that he was making art
because he was an artist
we were all artists
sitting there, smoking cigarettes
waiting on the cable bill to arrive
a couple of years ago
i heard that he finally got up
off of that couch
and moved to another city
apparently he’s a photographer now.