I dreamt I was eating
a book.
It was made from 8' by 12' slabs
one inch deep.
It tasted luminous
like a cold caramel iced-coffee,
those costly ones from Starbucks
followed by the desire for a
Marlboro Red cigarette,
but with nothing to light it.
As I chewed, I began to think
that the creation of books, being
an author, wouldn't work out for me.
The idea tasted sweet, but I was lacking,
lacking something, perhaps the lighter
to get the cigarette burning.
As I looked around
others were reading
the same title
but the normal way.
Everyone one of them-
Cummings, Poe, Didion.
They began to notice me
and stare.
Made me feel out of place,
as if I weren't a writer, as if
I didn't belong. I didn't have a
lighter to light the cigarette.
I was in a bar though,
a fitting place to drink
and smoke
so I ordered Budweiser
and I kept on chewing.
I realized
I won't be a writer
cause I didn't have the
lighter to light the cigarette.
Words really weren't my forte,
as I always wished I had the flair,
or at least a thing of matches to spark
the cigarette.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem