Waiting for death at the graveyard, traipsing
one of my abstruse moods. I noticed a grayish-hued
Cardinal was stalking me, going from one gravestone to
another chirping one strident song, my swan song,
rhapsodized by some lonely caretaker. My lifetime
eulogy sputtered out within minutes by this tiny
creature.
Fire and Ice-
Gold and Silver
Will never melt together
Like chalk for a marble pillar.
Blood and water-
Sweet and sour
Will never hybridize
A weed to a flower.
Death and Life-
Darkness and Light
Will never bargain with
A God-slayer's last rite.
Long ago and fables told,
Of witchcraft and thaumaturgy,
And the assault upon freedom
By the all powerful Roman Clergy.
Virgil Dennis O’Bryan
Chapter 9
One morning on a cold and snowy day after I finished cleaning up at Joe’s Tavern, I often drank a Mountain Dew before leaving and waited there on Saturdays to get my weekly pay from Joe Lawrence. Joe usually came through the back door, and he always loved his morning joint(weed), it woke him up and sent him adrift while cleaning over 1,000 beer mugs. He would never let me clean the mugs because Joe was obsessed with cleaning them spotless. The snow back then was always heavy, dumping 4 to 8 inches too. We had massive snowfalls back then too.
I was sipping my Dew and Joe went and opened the door, and in came a man in Army Blues, and his name was Virgil Denis O’Bryan, I thought he looked like a very young Willie Nelson and mid-aged Charles Bronson. He had that darkness within, and ask any Vietnam Vet, many still do. Virgil stomped his military boots to shake loose the sticking snow. And ordered a mug of some premium beer, Sterling. He and Joe had mutual respect.
Virgil had many aphorisms. Virgil once quipped holding up his mug of beer, “Beer’s a great seducer but a terrible woman.” Virgil was far better educated than most who drank with him yet never bickered over inconsequential barroom chatter. Virgil and his brother Lummie both served and toured the bomb-soaked jungles of Vietnam and both came back unscathed from the scorn and the scuttle of Viet Cong enemy fire but soon found out that wasn't true. When returning home, Virgil and Lummie soon found out that their own military’s barrage of scorched earth caused more harm upon our soldiers than the Viet Cong did. Agent Orange was buried deep into those jungles and stripped away the jungle like cancer. Agent Orange left nothing in its wake but naked dead debris of dead vermillion foilage. Virgil and Lummie had that pigment of Agent Orange scattered all through their bodies. This Agent Orange shortened the life of his brother Lummie too. Virgil and Lummie were inseparable, a band of brothers who tipped their war helmets, M-16s, and dog tags for country and freedom. I have much respect for them!
Virgil seemed to cut all ties of the Vietnam War after returning to the States, he buried that memory with shots of whiskey and mugs of brew. He and many like him rarely revisited that dreaded and useless war ever again. A yammering idiot who hammers upon an anvil of nightmares is a fool without a soul. But keeping those memories buried in those naked jungles is like mines in a field, that when trampled upon, explodes over and over again, the very reason why our veterans end their lives in guilt. God bless our Veterans. My heart was trampled upon years ago, by my mom’s best friend Myrtle St. Clair whom I called my second mother, her son, Charles David St. Clair, was my hero, he had a cool 1969 Camaro, and drove me to the old Rooster Run store many times buying me a pop to drink on those long hot summer days, who took the time to throw a baseball with me and showed me how to keep a tight spiral on a football, yet, sadly a war was raging in Vietnam and his draft number came up, he took me one last time to the store, I was 9-years-old, who just couldn't figure out why he had to fight in a war. He hugged me and promised me he would be back, I cried, his mom cried with me when he left us, and they brought his remains back in a dark bag. The casket was closed, and I stayed with Myrtle all summer, mowing her grass, and helping with her grieving. My very first tragedy, who still to this day, I cry every Memorial Day, God Bless You, Charles David St. Clair.
Virgil was a brilliant thinker, maybe the top philosopher of all time at the Bluegrass Tavern, and no he didn't metastasize into witchcraft, the dark Arts, and sorcery nor did Virgil try to find Shangri-la, Asgard, or Fillory. He was his own philosophical guru, and as a kid, and an adult I loved being around him. Virgil was Cicero at times, speaking of law and how one can bend the bows of Justice. Virgil was Nietzsche on Friday nights speaking of the loss of God and by Sunday night he was Kierkegaard wailing on the importance of self-worth. It’s no wonder I found refuge in him for many years, I even carried hod for him one long hot Summer, yes, Virgil was a great brick and stone mason; Lord, we both stayed fucked up but I would do it again and again. Virgil was a kind man, a generous man, and a forgiving man.
Virgil grew up near Balltown, and his mom, Josephine was the closest Angel you'll meet on this Earth, I loved that Virgil honored her like a Queen, she was the Crimson Rose of Balltown. Virgil had his home right next to her place, and Virgil had several loving brothers too. They were unbeatable in those legendary football games on Sundays, great times, memories that make up a lifetime of bliss.
The Virge was a prankster, he and Lummie were masters at it, I can't list every “shit-shenanigan” Virgil did but on one hot Summer day in July right before the annual Nelson County Fair that always took place at the Fairgrounds right across from the Bluegrass Tavern, Joe Lawrence had Mike Guthrie put the final artistic touches on his new sign of business. Virgil and Mike Guthrie were great buddies and Virgil decided to help Mike with painting the sign. The sign was supposed to have read, The Bluegrass Tavern but Mike and Virgil ran out of paint, and the sign now read, The Blue Ass Tavern. Joe Lawrence was so hot, I think the Nelson County Board even tried to fine Joe. Virgil took the blunt of the punishment from Joe, barring Virgil for a week yet Virgil ignored the fine and stood firmly in his barstool.
The longest week of the year
is between Christmas and New Year’s Day.
The last week to mull over forgiveness, broken
dreams, and to sweep up the dead shadows before
the light of the new year dishonors all resolutions.
Herding Cretan milk goats
and chanting Greek verses
to poly gods, writers ascribe
to the pastoral hymns of sorrow.
Where time’s the thief no one can
catch. The only thing that withstood
the binds of war, hate, and forgiveness
was the Doric columns of blood-stained
marble and the forgotten stench of death.
The sun comes shining through the window
and the child looks out to find forty years
pushed aside every dream. He simpers at
the boredom and forgets all dreams. He dies
and finds there's nothing upstairs, nothing
downstairs, and nothing anywhere but the
one life he forsaken.
- John Hardesty
Traveling on your escapade
With your humor and wit
Flaunting styles of your last parade
Like some lying hypocrite
Committed to this last crusade.
They say to follow the money
And by all rights, it never fails
It will lead you to the honey
But never take a left on the trail
Or you'll not think it’s funny
When you end up in jail.
