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---
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.
|
