Wednesday, June 10, 2009

I light a cigarette and think of writing them,
And in the cigarette I savor my liberation from all thoughts,
I follow the smoke like a lane of my own,
For one sensitive, dexterous moment enjoying
The freedom from all speculation
And the consciousness that metaphysics comes from feeling out of sorts.

Then I fall back in my chair
And go on smoking.
As long as fate permits, I'll go on smoking.

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