I’d smoke cigars all day and into the night
while I wrote and wrote without
any hope or slightest assurance
that anything I’d written actually mattered
or rose to a standard of literary merit.
I’d languish in the smoke that did me in
and call it the cloud of my unknowing,
so sweet in its taste, such as it was,
of Cuban soil. That would be paradise
in heaven that’s so overrated as endless
bliss it kills to imagine as a place for living
forever, no less, with nothing to do
or lips to kiss. I’d curse, therefore,
with the best of them—the legion
of Saved—as I sharpened my pencils
and smoked my Punches in the simple room
that I’d be given with a desk for writing
and bed for remembering the things
I’d forgotten. And reading too, I almost
forgot. I’d read and read since I’d be done
with sleeping, but dreaming, no, still dreaming
a lot. I’d live to live again with moments
of dying to see how “lucky” I was. I’d use
my body as an eidolon with invisible wings
that fluttered in the void as if it were air
and hummed in the dark in which I could see.

詩人由日照到深夜抽著淡淡的香煙,前面是一份又一份的稿件,詩人在滿佈煙冒的房間裏寫作,在思考他不懂得的,沒有特別的事情要辦,這樣活下去就像身處天堂一樣。他寫作著,在牀上記起已忘記的,在閱讀著,沉睡著,幻想著,還在幻想很多。他覺得自己很幸運,在黑暗中仍能唱歌仍能看見。這樣就是創作人的天堂呢。

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