Tavern to Tavern

This has been something I've been running my mouth along on in hopes to find the light.

Well, I don’t enjoy saying it, so I probably shouldn’t anyways, however, in most situations I wouldn’t say many of these woman will receive much from me. Definitely concerning more important matters, such as the things revolving around things much more than the atypical emotional rescue. Of course there are plenty of things that will the attention of my inner-wit, there would have to be right? Let’s just say when it comes to us sitting at those high-top bar-stools together, and we hadn’t walked out on each other yet, I’d say that’s probable. And upon you agreeing with that, I don’t think we would have a problem anyways. Fuck, to be honest, depending on the drinks between us, we would be all right. I drink a lot too. 

         
It’s been this way awhile, you know, you lose that one someone that’s got you feeling as if their the only other breathing existence on the godforsaken planet. Sometimes, and I’ll just say, if you’re into that belief system, it could mean quite frankly the entire universe, and the next one over. Sure enough we all know losing out on something you rather wish you didn’t, is like losing your taste buds. The tunes won’t sound the same, and there are days your shoes seem to never be on the right way, whatever the hell that means. I slept around, however it’s not the same as the drowning of their name, and you’ll beg to your ceilings, and your mirror that things will only stay this way until they are able to say yours' again.

          
It’s when I met her once more, that I had been taking a gasp from the way I had even thought she could say my name before. There was a night that brought me into a lower-lever tavern on a street where neither of which I can remember, in Boston. We had never been here before, at least we had agreed that neither of us were able to recall if we had, or hadn’t been, after some interactions not much worth the mention. I suppose that’s just not really the point anyways, it was being there with her. I wrote this after that night, in some strange relation to the partly cloudy day that it was. There had always been this : “something”. That laid behind the whiskey consciously ordered over and again, until it seemed as if it was an unconscious decision.

It was always strange to think that you’ve got an aching within your bones, that shakes, creates, and has caused you to make excuses, countless ones at that for the reason you’ve been drinking. To be honest, more importantly, why you’ve simply forgotten about breathing.

          There nothing that could raise you to forget the way that I will know your many faces too well. The one’s you’ll make throughout the night, one connected each to its own unique expression. I know them too god damn well. Of course, when the hour strikes, we’ve found the time in the drink, and grew aware that it was growing late. Just as many bars stay dimly lit in hopes that you will lose yourself, this place was the same.  It leaves us both, still slumping in these old bar stools. 



With the knowledge of the Moon’s height, the whiskey became forever more  welcome. It’s crisp, it’s clean, it’s cold over the rocks the tender had tumbled it upon. Boy, but fuck, the taste it just never grows old. I’ll die by that I think, and by die, I mean so quite literally. I mean, just ask my parents what there biggest fear was. Without blame to them, I'm clear in the conscious enough to know that I did plenty to mold that opinion.

          
To furthermore address the night, there was a moment, I had forgot to mention, where the much deserved and strikingly last ray of the day’s Sun had hit your glass. Bouncing back and forth, showing golden, and gorgeous, resonating in itself, it had shown a memory of a certain smile. We’d known each other a long time, I don’t think I would have ever mentioned drinking a tear in one of the glasses I had earlier this day. I broke a little dam in the back of my mind over the thought of our journeys.

We would say they were, you may not. 

          This smile was the one that I once walked with. It was gleaming‘ bright, showing a middle finger towards the nights that tried to bring us down, but never could. Dancing with the sounds of business shoes on a city street somewhere in front, and somewhere far behind us. And to the walk where we jingled keys, that were used for unlocking the door to our first apartments, and we had laughed so loudly, with that smile. We thought the others, the strangers should have joined in, that or have been jealous that their own tumultuous could be was smelt on the subway cars we rode on. 

The way you could tell a person by the way their shit stank, and more so for the ones who didn’t think theirs did and then, w/ weary resistance, I had made a trip from here to the men’s room, doing my business, and looking‘ through the crack in the mirror that had so perfectly been splitting the two faces I’ve fallen into, apart, and in the ring, weighing them upon both my shoulders, & I had turned from this no sooner then the thought occurred, & I cursed this old reflection. 



Again, Men’s room to my bar-stool, and there ain’t no foot rest at this bar, this damn bar-stool wobbles, and I’ve come to it too, 
So now, now now, 
“Ms. Just one more” 
So, down, down, down, 
before a smoke brought us out the door. There's always some space between the air, a smoke filled bar room, bedroom, living room, studio, bus stop, train station, oh, make me run away quicker than I could breathe a new breathe, and find eyes as warm as yours, that brings songs out of the whispers I speak from my side, in a bed sheet palace, you call your own, and time, and time, and time again, all of this, becomes a place that we can fit our pleasures perfectly to tend a tide, that left a view of the ocean, from a sea shore, counting waves that had been crashing, wishing I had just collided with you. 

You know I wish I had the opportunity to roll back the years, 
lay them out, and cut the ones from the varsity team of my life’s long yearbook that holds the trophy room full of my greatest memories and accomplishments, but we all know you can’t put the toothpaste back into the tube!

You just can’t put toothpaste back into the tube. 


So we will have chosen to remember the nights that we had this look at the Eastern sea, & the knowledge that the winds blow colder on the lakefront, and not so much for the ocean that we’ve got in front of us, but it’s heavier on a heavy morning, and far more then it does on a light evening, and I’ve gotten to know this well with left over beers, and day-old wine, warm whiskey, and amphetamines, I’ve learned this far more then I have the hair on my own face, or which way the wind blowing is more comfortable, I think I might have just had a bit too much to drink some nights  but god damn, I was thinking about something else, someplace else, now, what I’ve got is all that I need to know, and w/ that, all that I want is all that I’ve got, who would have thought it, this is where I am, now, no future, no not a future at all.


I could feel the goosebumps that had been growing on your forearms, and along your neck, and lower back, and the exact stance you stood in when the strain in your voice had weighed you down from all the conversations in which you had felt the same, and instead, you had to decision to mention that you had told me so, quote. un-quote, 

“See, you are still singing, dancing atop your grave, You are still singing, and you know there ain’t anything else that makes sense, than trying to make sense” 



And we discovered the rocks at the end of our fifth drink, & I know it’s grown late now, and that seems excessive, and trust me, I would have told you that I agreed because my left ear has started to do that one thing, well, how do I explain this, it’s began to die into an overwhelming half-ass’d deafness, and I’m not sure if it has to do with earwax, or the water stuck in my ear still, from last week’s shower, damn, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I guess I will just shave my head, and make this easier, again, maybe this time it all will be different, maybe until it happens again, so this deafness had overcome me, as it sometimes does towards the end of the night, after I took one of those left-ear down naps at 1 am, and then again it all does not matter anyways, because we both know its obvious with the morning song, and calling of the birds, & amongst all the whispers that were overheard from our lapse of silence, we heard the others to the bartender, “Look at the drunks still sipping over a fever, a fever only they were fighting”.... 



Sometimes you get stuck, if you know what I am talking bout with these wood-grain walls, w/ fully-done, thirty-year old style ceilings, that leave you w/ that one bar-stool that makes you feel uneasy like walking a tribal-rope-wound bridge that has been running over a fast current, oh, you’re the last one to be playing chicken with a fall that could kill you, but if you had asked us, we've not been thinking like that at all, my eyes can tell you a story..
There's always some space between, you, & me. 



There is much to say amongst a crowd of many when whiskey rolls the tongue’s tune.

Cheers, to anything worth pleasing the tight excitements we have held tonight, and those that have yet to come, oh and they have been strung together in such a fashion, that left me thinking of that flowing skirt that laid life below the knee-line of that beautiful woman we passed on our way to the “For Sale Tavern!” Those legs, and we’ve been left solemnly to think how quite precisely whiskey mirrors the mishandling of my words & my judgements w/ every last drink of such a batch to match yours.
 I began to wander as I felt the drinks a bit more now :

By this time of the night I was thinking
of the tavern doors I walk out of, and the street
I cross to open the tavern doors on the other side.

There are of course the blue eyes of the bartender
who serves me his idea of "What sounds good?".
I know he's itching to get off his sore feet, as I
am doing, as I habitually do, with my own up on the
bar footrest. He knows me from the times he actually gets
the chance to do just that. Across the street from his
tavern, and over to where I make my living.
I don't know him, we never talked much.
I know he likes water without ice, after two Heineken's,
a dry stout, and a shot of Jameson, if he ever eats
a Reuben, but with turkey.

We call that "The Rachel". I really should know
the origin of the subject at hand, but I don't.
We should just presume that in fact if there
were to be a sandwich-maker, I don't know,
let's say he lived in Brooklyn, and he in fact
created the reuben, we shall also presume
he dated a woman who just didn't like
fucking corned beef, right? It's almost like
presuming I know I write with run-on sentences
but I was too god damn stubborn to ever
think it set me back in anyway. Fuck me, clearly.

There was a similarity between hopping from idea
to idea, and being an acid head. Both of which left
you the most absolutely astonishing sense of memory.
Really, you just had so many, that none of them ever
came out right from your mouth, you seemed like
a dull ass piece of shit. I couldn't think of anything
more harshly, fuck I am both of those things, and I
can't say I hold the highest confidence in myself.
Let's face it going back to defend acid, was on the
grips of my finger tips, but we all know I don't need
to defend something so horrifically beautiful, and real.

If you know what I meant, you did, if you didn't well
you also didn't wake up on the right side on the century,
and probably lived your life thinking that a nine to five
job would be the creation of all the dreams you had
since you were seven years old. Where are the two Audis
the large ranch style home and the ability to spend the
weekdays on the golf course? Like I said I'm working in
a bar, and I'm sure in this life if doesn't matter how old
I am in this picture, however I would be twenty-one. There's
a thin line between success and failure, and that's because
we all have our own definition of the two. No wonder with each
passing person to have shared the idea with us, they seem
to be an absolute lazy ass, or a fucking complete life sucking
douche canoe. I clearly want to believe that I am happy where
I am with life, at all times, because well let's face it, I've
eaten enough acid to go through life with a shit eating
grin on my face at all times, until that daydream's walls
fall in all around me. Fuck that, in reality, nobody ever wants
to be where they are, and when they are satisfied with where
they are, its only encompassed in the small amount of time
it takes them to say "I'm happy here". Then, as usual it's on
to the 'next big thing' or whatever the fuck that is to take
our attention like a dog's to a god-damn frisbee. I'd rather
be the frisbee in any of the above situations, freely, because
being chased by a dog is always the most fun.

.. Im not sure if the bartender across the street thinks Im
a complete asshole. I mean my coworkers could never guess,
because I let the world walk its dirty shoes allover my welcoming
mat, of the lack of self respect it takes to make up my personality.
That or the fact I’m basically a spunion. And there’s been something
 through all that clearly
that means I just cannot say no. Simply let’s 
face it, drugs made us absolute Godzilla’s.
If you are to tell me that 
in your absolute ‘prime’ of days, when you were fucking drugs right 
up the ass, that comparing yourself to Godzilla, and buildings were 
the upper’s, and the asian people were the downer’s, and the tourists
 just made things a bit trippy, you were clearly not having a enough fun.


I don’t exactly know what that means. If you happen to be asian I don’t want to 
come off as a typical asshole, I was trying to be funny. And fuck you anyways, if 
you blame me, and not the American’s who adopted the Godzilla concept, I would
never look at you all the same. As crying, running, screaming women, and men
in suits, that just so happen to be in fear of a fictional monster.