'I went to Paris to exorcise some demons. Some kind of dread I harbored of moving forward. I went with this poetic conceit that we would meet in some melody hovering over his grave. But there was nothing. It was pouring rain and I sat there trying to conjure up some kind of grief or madness. I remembered this dream I had. I came in a clearing and saw a man on a marble slab. It was Morrison and he was human. But his wings were merging with the marble. He was struggling to get free but like Prometheus, freedom was beyond him.
I sat there for a couple hours. I was covering with mud and afraid to move. Then it was all over. It just didn’t matter anymore. Racing threw my skull were new plans new dreams voyages symphonies colors. I just wanted to get the hell outta there and go home and do my own work. to focus my floodlight on the rhythm within. I straightened my skirt and said good-bye to him. an old woman in black spoke to me in broken English. “look at this grave, how sad! why do you Americans not honor your poets?”
My mind moved before my mouth. I finished the dream. The stone dissolved and he flew away. I brushed the feathers off my raincoat and answered:
because we don’t look back.'
Words by
PATTI SMITH