Wayne Lanter

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He's in Paris

When these days are done and I am gone
Into the wilderness the blizzard of tomorrows
Or shortly after for those that miss me
(And for a moment there may be a few)
Do not erect a monument or herm
At the crossroads I abandoned
Leave the markings and misery of time to others
But when they ask--if they must know--say only
"He's in Paris"

But tell them also not to look for me
At rue Saint André des Arts or on the Quai
Paris extends as far as the mind can see
And after all these years
Others may be easily mistaken for me

More than that do not grieve my leaving
Or imagine I might be alone or weeping

Sunny mornings I shall ride a boat
Past Jardin du Trocadero
Toward the sea at noon and afternoons
I'll be in Luxembourg among the statues
Resting on Flaubert's cenotaph
Or sitting in the rain with Amedeo and Anna
Beneath his oversized black umbrella
The softness of their distant voices chanting Verlaine
She will be holding a single red rose

Night time will be best of all
I'll follow the moon along Saint-Germain-des-Prés
Pausing briefly to converse with Danton
And mingle in the shadows
Beneath the canopies of cafés and trees
Jean-Paul and Simone are still there
As are Descartes and Picasso's Apollinaire
Though you need not look for me

So if they ask say "He's in Paris for the duration"
And though there seems no reason to it
If necessary to oblige empty considerations
Assure them that I will be in touch



Success and happiness are written in white ink on white paper.
Human problems and suffering are scrawled in blood and black ink.


If you put your hand in water and pull it out,
it will not leave a hole.
But your hand will be wet,
and that is the source for a thousand years of wonder.


It is a short step from
believing in
what is not there
to not believing in
what is there.

in memoriam

Each narrative, be it art, science, or gossip, provides a fragment for the awakening, enhancement, and extension of the consciousness that embraces it.