Sometimes I feel as though I am not a real writer.
I don’t smoke. I don’t wake up early but I don’t sleep
all day either. I find myself increasingly interested
in dumb luck. Chance: I’ve found two dimes in as many
days. Does this mean I’ve found twenty lucky pennies?
I want you to participate. You the reader. You,
the probabilistic god of my dreams. I’ve been having
strange dreams lately. I don’t remember them but
they leave impressions. A bare foot. A tunnel
of hair from her face to mine. A boat stranded
in a living-room. Something warm. Something like the sun
through my eyelids. A hand, with all its dead symbology.
My teeth have fallen out. No, you pulled them out
with your hands, threw them over your left shoulder
like salt, to wish away bad luck. I have something
to tell you: bad luck follows like a dog. It lets you
get ahead for a few days, a week, a year. You’ll see,
it’ll bite your sleeping face when you’re not looking.
I’ve been dreaming about the future, I know. In my dream
I am not a writer, I live in a place with rain. You
are sunning yourself as you read this, on a beach or
maybe a desert. Let me move in with you. I can cook
or clean or take care of your dog while you’re out.
I’ll never have to write again. I’ll watch television.
Do I want to become a writer? Tell me. Should I smoke?
I can sleep all day in your attic if you want, become
your god, lose my own, settle to the bottom of the bed
like a boat in a river, dream about nothing but furniture.