I remember this day.
I remember it well.
It was night,
A night dark and foggy.
The radioman interrupted the music,
to say you’d been shot.

Later he interrupted the music,
to say you were dead.
I remember the numb disbelief,
the shock of my mom crying,
“The world is so evil,”
and
“I can’t believe they let this happen”.

And I remember the walk;
the cold streets,
the chilling fog,
stamped into my eye,
by the streetlight’s glaring cone.
And the moving, restless pain.
How walking didn’t help,
how stopping didn’t help.
How nothing seemed to lesson,
the growing chasm.

Yah, I remember that time.
Yes, I remember that night.
And I especially remember the cold;
my body chilling,
in sympathy,
with yours.

My useless rage.
My wet eyes.
My deep sadness.

One little bullet,
and they closed the lid on you.
Put you in a tiny, claustrophobic box,
and fucking stuck you in the ground.

A statue would have been better.
Maybe a plaque.
But a box?
A tiny box?

As if a box could hold you.
As if life was necessary for you,
to live.
As if you needed your flesh,
to pedal your music.

Stupid, silly fools.
Stupid men with guns.
Cruel, stupid world.

Good-bye, John.
Good-bye.

-ERK
12/8/95
11:32 am

My remembrances of John Lennon’s death written in the 15th anniversary.