and sick of summer,
I sweat my way
to a meeting of artists,
one of whom
I want to bang.
do people still say bang anymore?
oh well, I don't know.
I get to the location and no one is there.
Turns out, I had the day wrong;
the meeting is next Thursday.
So I head back
to my temporary home,
with Franco and other losers
who lie about their station in life.
I drink coffee and eat popcorn.
I sit on a chair
and paint the stairs
with blood from knuckles.
this is a good day, I think.
nothing happened
and nothing is better than a canceled
or forgotten, flubbed meeting,
and so I write poetry about normal days
where nothing happens.