"It's gonna be a big day," he said.
And then he said:
"Every day is a big day."
"We're free," he said.
"Every day is a little poem to me."
I laughed into my beer.
"Where, oh where, man?" I said.
"Man where do you come up with this wierd shit?"
But believing is half the thing, I guess.
And then he left me, halfway, I guess.
Said good-bye, more or less.
Walked out into the sweet liquid heat
of that August night.
Funny how you can't forget.
It's so strange how you keep them alive.
Like the old gods and their clay figurines.
That's us and those things we can't forget.
I wrote him a few years later.
Set it all down on paper.
"It's gonna be a big day.
Do you remember?
Every day is a big day.
Do you remember?"
He called me around Halloween
A month or two gone inbetween.
"It wasn't me," he said.
"I don't remember," he said.
"I don't remember We are free, I don't remember poetry."
"It wasn't me, It wasn't me, It wasn't me."