The Bluegrass Tavern Chronicles(page-9)

                                                                Marty Taylor

                                                                  Chapter 4

     Marty Taylor was an original Bluegrass Tavern scholar, highly intelligent, a well-read man, and a philosophical humorist. He was a dead ringer to Jerry Garcia(lead singer of The Grateful Dead), a doppelganger indeed, I and others often told him that too; Marty loved his fat cigars and the illegal ones too alongside a cold mug of premium beer. Once he nestled in on a barstool, you just knew you were going to be lectured on anything and everything that sprouted from his educated and nourished mind, and always entertaining. He looked like an Einsteinian maestro conducting a symphony with his cigar, his expressionism was priceless, wholly engulfed in his Aristotelian motif, and dead right about every word that spewed out of his consummated mouth. 

     Marty was a symbol of love, he never had any negative energy, and loved a conversation with anyone who would take the time to lend an ear. Joe Lawrence was wise and well read too but Marty knew more and that undermined Joe’s intellect, yet Marty was such a natural mystic, he eased up any tension with a joke or a laugh, Joe seemed to try in vain to overshadow Marty, I think because Marty was better educated and this betrayed Joe’s ego. But, Marty never crossed anyone, and if things got heated, Marty would buy a 12-pack of beer and head home. 

      I and many others loved Marty, his penchant for knowledge and his bestowing that knowledge to the underprivileged barroom drunks was well received and appreciated. He conquered in the name of History, Science, and Art, he's an exalted God in the chamber of high drifting barroom smoke that floats and creeps aloft the pool tables and bar stools. Marty was one of a kind, and he's the person you want sitting beside you at the trough of flowing beer, yes, he’ll dole out infinite wisdom but more importantly, his smile alone will impart more religion upon you than any leeching and money-grabbing Southern Evangelical, and you'll know it within minutes too. 

     Marty Taylor is an improvement to civilization and his shrug for stupidity is an invading concept, and an empty mind is an empty beer mug. Marty was an idealist yet as real as they come. Here's to you my dear friend, Marty Taylor. 

The Bluegrass Tavern Chronicles(page-8)

 

                                                   Johnny Hibbs(The Bull)

                                                          Chapter 3

    A certain distinctive quality follows a man for most of his hardened life and Johhny Hibbs’ attribute was in my opinion a Minotaur, he looked like a five-year-old Bull ready for the Bull Ring and probably the only bull in history to ever successfully survive a Matador’s sword too. Johnny had muscles in his eyeballs, and his fortitude was an armor of massive flesh that looked like he curled kegs of beer for boredom, he's one person you better not ever cross or fuck with, even though he thought I was some uneducated punk teenager that was open to his barrage of constant insults, Johnny, in my opinion, never liked me, so, I usually mouthed right back without consequence or worry because no one ever frightened me, I didn't care if you were Joe Frazier, my dad always said to stand up to anyone and never let any person bully you. But, Johnny and I never exchanged throws or punches and I have no doubt he could've cleaned my clock and pulled out my intestines, tied them around my body, and played me like a banjo. I guess he did have some civility and discipline after all. 

      My only complaint is Johnny could've had a more warming approach to some teenager he never knew, mind you, I was only 17 years old, I worked for everything I owned which wasn't much, clothes on my back and old car-meaningless stuff. Johnny and I both loved Louisville Cardinals too, but the conversation, arrogance, and disdained humility always ended there, I was a freshman indulging in and conversing with the beer gods of the Bluegrass Tavern. I never wanted trouble with anyone, especially not the bull called Johnny Hibbs but life is the full circle of forgiveness. 

     Johnny Hibbs was the kindest man around certain people, he could charm a harp away from an Angel but when it came to me he found pleasure annoying and belittling me. I never said one negative word about him ever in my life and I admired his stubbornness and ethical restraint, he just didn’t find the time or effort to be friends with me, I buried that axe deep in that bar stool many years ago, and I had one regret and that’s me and Johnny could’ve been enduring lifetime friends because we shared many joys-U of L Sports, horses, and drinking beer. Now, the requiem of that memory and redemption is long past any recovery, if people only took the time to appreciate others life wouldn’t need any rulers. Pax vobiscum, Johnny Hibbs. 

Dear

 Dear….

Hello, and eternal tidings, Bradley Family. I’ll not dally and I'll get to the gnawing torture that's plagued me all my remaining life, it's Rusty’s death. When I hear a certain song, and today it was Gerry Rafferty’s Right Down The Line, like so many of those great songs they immediately send me drifting back to when I and Rusty would be laughing and hanging out and trying to figure out this life, they were so many fun times, we were so young, bent on conquering this world, and realizing how cold and bitter this life truly is. But, I immediately go back in time and relive it for a brief stay, and the thoughts are livid with colors of those Spring and Fall days with Rusty, I never went anywhere unless Rusty would be there, my sidekick for life, even though Alan Greer seemed to steer him in the direction of unethical principles that we both were raised and railed against. I pride myself on being a moral person, I've never intended to hurt anyone. Though, with my reckless ways, I'm quite sure I did. 

Falling To Pieces Alone

“A bottle of red, a bottle of white

Whatever kind of mood you're in tonight

I'll meet you anytime you want

In our Italian restaurant.” 

Billy Joel’s Scenes From An Italian Restaurant 

always starts the melancholy-the thought of you,

your favorite song you always played first at 

the poker table, memory now bleeds, you always 

called my bluff but never out of disrespect pushed this

old war horse out of the way, some warm Souls are

never worthy of another yet the drift of time and space

seem to automate this pythonic caucus between two

aberrant friends, memories now wamble of our laughter

and of our apprehensions of death, we talked about the

philosophical retrieve of our lives, the list of lost chances and

opportunities abound within the outstretched reach of mortal

confinement and I ask in silence why did you leave us? This

temporal torture clings to my conscience like some ungodly curse, 

this overture of misery affixes every thought, and the ill-fated

destiny from whence you endured, this immersion of sorrow only

leaves me when I'm asleep, thoughts are no more immortal than 

the human who reaps them, an iconism of an afterthought to relive

the aftermath is just too far off to reach, this immanent anathema 

will not dissipate, flushed with guilt always, can't undo the wrong, can't 

rewrite fate’s inglorious page, and I can never bring you back, my dearest

and greatest friend, Dwayne Hutchins.