Dear John,

It’s funny how they mention it,
without really saying.
Scares the hell out of me really.

It’s just what John has taught us,
it’s just what Elvis taught us,
James Dean and Marilyn,
have struggled into permanence.
And I want to drink to them,
they seem so pretty.
Scares the hell out of me really.

Dear John,

What are we really seeking?
That funny feeling in a musty attic,
old papers and old souls?

My grandfather, your mother,
my dad.
Its not the same,
they don’t make me feel immortal,
just sad.
Scares the hell out of me really.

Scares the hell out of you too.
Maybe that’s why we watch it on the tube:
Blue light in a dark room,
a late night show of,
my hands in your hair,
your hands in my heart.
Scares the hell out of me really.

Dear John,

Do we really have a choice,
or imagine that we don’t?

Dear John,

-ERK
3/16/88
12:45pm

This poem started as a Dear John letter to John Lennon, and just went from there.

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.

There’s this song in my head,
and I’m waiting for it,
to be loud and clear.
Wanting to hear the sweet music;
dance to the rhythms of my success.
Float on those powerful waves.

But what I mostly hear,
is that, scum-sucking-gonna-get-me-some-
-hype-filled-read-all-about-it-business-fuck-white-noise.
And that shit’s loud, man.
It gets into your shirt, man.
Until you perform with the norm.
You know
marry rich, invest well, buy a house, vote Republican,
watch TV, and believe what all that “common wisdom” bullshit,
does to your fear and guilt, man.

But I ain’t gonna hear that shit.
I ain’t gonna sing that white song of suppression.
I ain’t gonna reach out and fuck someone,
to please the stockholders.

Instead I will raise my right hand.
And I will pledge allegiance to the edge;
to the furthest part of my ability.
And to the song which is in my head,
I will dance and sing like a silly damn fool.
Dig It!

-ERK
4/1/95
11:00 pm