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Writers Writing Dying
C. K. Williams
Many I could name but won't who'd have been furious to die while they were
sleeping but did—
strued for themselves
being stolen from them so rudely, so crudely, without feeling themselves like
rubber gloves
long—all of it gone,
squandered(浪费), wasted, on what? Death, crashingly boring as long as you're able
to think and write it.
Think, write, write, think: just keep running faster and you won't even notice
you're dead.
The hard thing's when you're not thinking or writing and as far as you know
you are dead
or might as well be, with no word for yourself, just that suction-shush like a
heart pump or straw
in a milk shake and death which once wanted only to be sung back to sleep
with its tired old fangs
Well, dead or not, at least there was that fancy, of some scribbler(三流作家,小文人), some think-
and-write person,
holding a banjo
side the way crazily
happily people will do it—singing songs or not even songs, just lolly-molly
write down the idiot gab.
But in the meantime isn't this what it is to be dead, with that Emily-fly
buzzing over your snout(鼻子)
that you're singing almost as she did; so what matter if you died in your sleep
or rushed towards dying
like the Sylvia-Hart part of the tribe who ceased too quickly to be and left out
You're still aloft with your banjoless banjo, and if you're dead or asleep who
really cares?
Such fun to wake up though! Such fun too if you don't! Keep dying! Keep
writing it down!
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