---
title: A real writer
genre: verse

project:
    title: Autocento of the breakfast table
    css: autocento
...

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.