There's good reason to forget infant memory.
Too many colours, sounds, and faces back then.
My upsets were soothed with a soft hand and a healing kiss.
It wouldn't be fair to compare,
I would feel weak to compete
With those faded images and feelings.
It's bad enough with my adult recall,
Stories and pictures that bring on palpitations, clamminess and racing.
My school is an empty lot, beside an empty rectory, and an empty church.
My childhood avenue is derelict, like Mockingbird Lane.
My Triumph Herald is still baby blue in some photo.
With each memory, I feel the nausea.
Look at this one. All ten of us.
Five still.
I'm already beginning to feel queasy.
If I were five still, I'd forget.

I was sound asleep. Work tomorrow

Tuesday, December 9, 1980. 6:30 A.M.

Alarm on. Out and into shower.
Shave. Can't hear radio.
Getting dressed, and in the background's playing, Imagine.
Then Wheels, Beautiful Boy, Help, I Should Have Known Better.
Why?
And the news sinks in. And I have to go teach Grade 6 English
and read Curious ******* George to four classes of Kindergartens and Grade ones.
And, I'm alone in my new house, in a small town called Aylmer (population 5,000).
My wife is away during the week at University, and I hate my job,
and he's decaying on some slab as I read to twenty-five five year olds. Some of these kids will get to know and love his work. So will their kids and grandkids. I know. Like Mozart.

Tuesday, December 9, 1980. 10:00 P.M.

Me, Johnny Walker, and the turntable going round and round, like his wheels.

It was forty years ago today,
In New York where he longed to stay;
At the doors to his apartment rise,
With devil's envy rising in his eyes;
He imagined his confusion wasn't wrong;
Then the curtain in the tower tore,
The Cavern shook beneath its floor,
And the needle scratched across our songs.

I want to let him rest in peace,
Still waiting at the end of his road.

The assassin doesn't seek release,
And it doesn't really matter Bro.
For John is dead, and
And we're a bit lonelier now.

The overnight fall
Is framed through my bedroom window
This morning
I will wrap myself
In the blanket
Before tires, squirrels and bootprints
Mar my pristine scene.

These are images that once were
The tan lines stretching across your shoulders;
Like starlight from some supernova;
Your photos in my albums;
Our shadows beneath bright suns;
Those ghosts have come and gone.

Then love became a memory;
And memory is the ghost
That frightens me the most.

Many of the world's greatest Leaders throughout our tumultuous history have;
Many of  the insightful Revolutionaries in stink hole and glory hole countries have;
Many of the oppressed, disenfranchised and cheated also have.
Look to Lenin, Mandela, Gandi, Nehru, Havel, Bhutto, Ceausescu, Charles I, Papadopoulos, Lady Jane Grey, Louis XVI, Marcos, Milosevic, a pile of Mohameds, Mussolini, Nicholas II, Pinochet, Saddam, Marie Antoinette, Pope Clement V, Selassie, Baghdadi, Duvalier, and, let's not forget the author of Mien Kampf, Adolph the Tenderizer.
And what do they all have in common?
Some, before they became boldly notorious, and others, after they became criminally notorious.
Some, looked out their window and saw platforms being erected.
Others witnessed gallows, guillotines. posts and walls.
They all got some time in:
PRISON. GAOL. JAIL. COOLER. LOCKUP.  DUNGEON. KEEP. PEN. BASTILLE. CLINK. STATESVILLE. SLAMMER. STOCKADE. THE BIG HOUSE.
You get the idea.
His time will come.

I am part of your smile today.
I might be in the curl of your lip,
In the corner glint of your eyes;
Or the concave of a dimple.

I will trip across your tongue today
When you speak of plans;
I will be today's man,
Clear the wreckage from the storm,
The tempest that began your day,
Reminding you we too were young.

When on your morning walk,
You might feel my hand slip in
And be with you awhile,
In your thoughts and smiles.

When I get big, as big as Granda,
I can do whatever I wanta.
I won't have to go to bed,
Even though I'm nodding.
I'll stay up late, yawn and stretch,
Let my eyes dry, rub and scratch,
Staring at the late night screen,
And think of jobs in need doing,
Like raking, shoveling, weeding, mowing.
Thanksgiving isn't far away, then
Christmas comes and family stays.
Granda stays up late and thinks
Of doing something before he sinks.
He doesn't have to clean the harvest,
Stain a table for a daughter, or
Drive to London for a visit.
He doesn't have to go to school,
And follow everybody's rules.
For all he's worth, and we're not sure,
He's staying here for many more.