Reliquary

 

Dear Mrs C.

First, before you condemn me to Hell and for your information, I've been battling Cancer for almost 3 years; malignant nasal cancer, they removed 3 tumors from my optic nerve, bolted me down like Frankenstein, and zapped me 33 times with radiation, and yes, I rang that stupid bell. Unfortunately, the kind that returns they tell me. Yet, through it all, I never asked for any help; for one, most of my family are in wheelchairs from MS-2 sisters & 2 brothers. I don't want any pity!! From anyone! 

I don't want a country telling me who to pray to; there are too many steeples and not enough truth. I don't want a country where there are only WHITE people; that's White supremacy! I don't want a Dictator like Korea or Russia, where 99% of the money goes to the billionaires! I don't want a stupid neighbor who refuses Education and, in return, burns a wooden cross. I want Healthcare for everyone, no exceptions. I want people to love their neighbors and keep their judgments of others to themselves. I want every child fed; why do they deserve to starve while in poverty? This is 2026, where any of the billionaires could eradicate hunger and homelessness overnight but refuse; yet, all they want is a Plutocracy or Oligarchy. They love to inflict their Kshatriya hatred! They refuse to yield from their power. 

I see the decay of Democracy in this country from a party(GOP) that will not accept the winning outcome of any Election, all because they worship a pedophile, Trump! Amazing that we never had that problem for over 250 years until Trump came along. A man who probably threatens them. Trump coddles up to dictators, worships them! He bows down to them. 

We are human beings! I still open doors for women, and I still believe we are all equal creatures. I still laugh like a child, I still care for my friends, and I still know right from wrong. 

I judge people by their actions. Then I draw from the well of reason why people hate one another and pretend they're a Christian. On and on…….

Take care; this is my very last comment to you. 

- John 

Reliquary 

The feign Camelot strides the golden calf
his thralldom spreads like plagues of death; 
toothless and mindless servants 
trawl in their viridity, 
spellbound in perfidious naivety 
they gather gold that gluts their king, 
imbecilic to their tribunal demise;
where idiots rush in kings send knights-errant
to pillage from those less fortunate 
and call it Democracy. 


- John Hardesty 

©️9/20/2019

The Bluegrass Tavern Chronicles(14)

 

                                                    Feather Welch 

Feather Welch was one in a million characters. He struggled with life like the rest of us yet he punished himself with unlimited draughts of Sterling. He handled the pain well, and the wall of laughter outside hid the tragedy within; he doused those horrible memories with endless mugs of Joe’s premium tap. 

Yes, Feather was a complicated and troubled man, who never complained out loud about his antithetical disturbed mind. He was quite comical and an intellectual who cursed the mundanity of chasing some philosophical muse. He rarely struggled with any conversation dealing with the fragile optics of death and life; he was a well-read man! 

 Feather was a flaneur hawk, who observed every conversation with exceptionalism. He rarely overstepped his stoic mannerism; he often asked if he could say a word or two, always polite. He and Joe spat at each other with contempt. They just went at each other all night at times, Feather never backed down, and Feather was a big man but a nice man, yet you could sense that he could fight if he was challenged. 

Little Yellow Bird

Little Yellow Bird 

 

The snow was very plentiful and crumbs were very few, As a weatherbeaten sparrow through a mansion window flew. Her eyes fell on a golden cage, a sweet love song she heard, Sung by a pet canary there, a handsome yellow bird! He said to her, "Miss Sparrow, I've been struck by Cupid's arrow! Will you share my cage with me?" She looked up at his castle, With its ribbon and its tassel, And in plaintive tones said she - "Goodbye little yellow bird, I'd gladly mate with you. I love you, little yellow bird, but I love my freedom too! So goodbye little yellow bird, I'd rather brave the cold On a leafless tree than a prisoner be, in a cage of gold!" (Goodbye little yellow bird, I'd gladly mate with you. I love you, little yellow bird, but I love my freedom too! So it's goodbye now little yellow bird, I'd rather brave the cold On a leafless tree than a prisoner be, in a beautiful cage of gold!) (Goodbye little yellow bird, I'd gladly mate with you. I love you, little yellow bird, but I love my freedom too! So goodbye) little yellow bird, I'd rather brave the cold On a leafless tree than a prisoner be, in a cage of gold! Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye little yellow bird!

The song "Little Yellow Bird" (also known as "Good-bye, Little Yellow Bird") was written and composed in 1903 by Charles William Murphy (lyrics) and William Hargreaves (music). [1]

Hardesty Humor

 

I'm so damn old, I was the blacksmith that forged Thor’s Hammer. 

The Blue Grass Tavern Chronicles(chapter 13)

                                                                    Donnie Bradley

  Donnie Bradley was one of the greatest buddies anyone could ask for. I met Donnie when I was very young, Rusty Bradley was my closest friend from grade school through high school and I met Donnie through Rusty, they were cousins. 

     Donnie was handsome, and the gals flocked to him like living birdseed. Yet Donnie never flaunted his unique prowess or paraded his good looks and charm out at Joe’s Tavern; for one, not too many gals entered Joe’s place, and for two, many patrons were happily married like Donnie. Donnie never cheated on his wife either. Donnie just liked coming out at Joe’s and having a good ol' mug of brew. 

     On those glorious Friday nights, when Donnie walked through that back door, you were in for a treat. He always had a great joke, and he was a master at telling it. Gary Walker seemed to always accompany Donnie; you rarely saw one without the other. They were lifetime buddies. We all loved our Friday nights, we huddled around Joe’s big bar like Jesus’ apostles around Jesus’ Last Supper. 

     Donnie avoided anything that displayed arrogance or grandeur; he abhorred posing for any cause that benefited the wealthy. Donnie was a simple man, not an impoverished person either. 

He was family-oriented and secure. Donnie was loved by all. 

     Donnie loved to play cards on a Friday night, we all did. Joe Lawrence even played a few hands before the crowd became an ambush. I had a heart flush once, and I raised and raised, and the only one who survived my raises was Donnie, I told him, I swear, I have a heart flush, and I'll show it to you, he had two 5s, & two 4s, and a 4 of clubs, a 4 of diamonds, and a 5 of hearts already on the table, and on the last card down he caught the last 5 in the deck. He smiled and I knew he got it. We laughed for hours. 

     Donnie seemed to be happy but many who entered the tavern weren't, that's why many patrons drank themselves into the abyss of misery. Donnie lost his son in a terrible car accident, he carried a heavy heart from then on, this eventually wrecked his marriage. He was seen quite often at Joe’s thereafter, Joe always had the cure and that was a mug of forgetfulness, even if it only lasted a few hours. Donnie had a rare disease, that he never brought up, and he died way before his time. He left this world with a broken heart; goddamn life is brutal. I loved Donnie like my own brother. 

  Looking back, this velagoric moment in time saddens me, watching your beloved friends pass through the final out door without telling them all how much your life improved with them in it. 

                                

CSN’s Cathedral

 

I bought this CSN album after my Dad committed suicide, and the song Cathedral played for me for the very first time, and clung to me most profoundly, and I almost had an out-of-body experience, smoking some great herb that I personally grew too, but, I was scared, and I realized, that I'm no more stronger or significant than an ant on a crumb of sugar, or a spider in a well-designed web. 

The Bluegrass Tavern Chronicles(chapter 12)

 

                                                      Joe Pat Allen

     I met Joe Pat Allen early in my life; he loved sports and enjoyed playing them, too. Joe Pat worked at Burroughs like most adults at his age, either you took seasonal labor outside or you frolicked at some local factory or distillery here in Bardstown. 

     Joe Pat loved his cold mug of beer at Joe’s and everyone did. Joe’s place was home away from home where all your friends lived after work. Joe Pat was a decent pool shooter but I wouldn't say he was near the best and when he was young before his eyes started to go bad, he won a few bucks. He was decent at foosball, what a game that was; the game was very new to Bardstown, too. The game was invented and patented by Harold Searles Thorton in 1921. A serviceman Lawrence Patterson discovered it in Germany in the 1950s and brought it into the United States. In the 1970s, the game took off like mad! A great game. I practiced endlessly, because I had free access, I cleaned up the tavern. We had some historic games on Joe’s foosball table. The jukebox was right next to it and Joe Lawrence had it loaded up with Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, and CSN&Y. The winner got free beer. I played front, but was a great back goalie too. Joe Pat often played goalie as my partner. We played long enough to get drunk, then quit, and watched the World Series, or whatever game was on ESPN, or on the local channels. 

  Joe Pat was a decent person, he came from a strict Catholic family, and they lived less than a mile from St. Joseph’s Church. He was one of the Maple Hill Gang, a neighborhood of many patrons of Joe’s Tavern. The tavern made everyone come together, it was like a human convention of friends. Friday nights came to be everyone’s Mecca; where everyone prayed to the ever-flowing tap of premium beer. 

   I saw many great bands in Louisville, I usually bought 4 tickets, though many times only 2 too. Tickets were cheap back then, I saw so many great bands and always paid $6.50-$7.50 a ticket, YES was a buck extra but nobody griped. The great band that I still love today, YES, was coming to town and I had all their albums. At Joe’s, I told Joe Pat I had 3 tickets to see YES. I misplaced and lost one ticket. Bobby Elmore overheard me, he loved YES, we all did, Joe had the song " Roundabout " on his jukebox. Bobby interrupted me, saying, “Tim, I'll drive us all.” I said, “You are in!” We all met up at Joe’s beforehand, and we jumped in Bobby’s car. He had a Porsche but only two people could fit into it. He borrowed his brother’s big LTD Ford. Freedom Hall was an incredible stadium, not a bad seat in the place! YES had an elaborate setup, placed their huge revolving stage in the heart and center of Freedom Hall, like all bands, they had 2 drummers. Somehow, Bobby talked to the Security police and got all three of us into that sealed-off area where only a few were allowed near the stage, Chris Squire was my hero too, he had his solo before Roundabout and he threw a guitar pick right at me because I was spellbound by his performance, and he saw me and I caught it, yet I gave it to a beautiful gal who was right beside me, to this day, I regret that. She wasn't even impressed by my gesture. Joe Pat and I lit up a joint in the far back, weed aroma filled that place, cops were everywhere too but they usually looked the other way unless you were stupid. Weed and great concerts went hand in hand. What a glorious show. I bought a shirt, even bought one for Joe Pat, who never paid me back, but it was a token he never forgot. I loved Joe Pat. He loved me back too. 

Nodus Tollens

 

Living in constant pain, the

Physical and mental misery,

Leaves one in a multitude of Hells. 

The naivety of ignorant people 

Who justify their youth by

Laughing at the old and 

Disabled, this world was 

Never right for the meek

Where the gentry control

The world. 

What do the dead dream

In their deep biblical sleep? 

To An Outlying Friend

 

Oh, the circling vultures refuse to gnaw out my heart

Though the crows mock me as supreme squires with 

their judicial caws

I've stumbled on this curse again, will not depart,

This meddling with my God;

Gilded cages, silent rages 

Weathered every season

Upon these history pages 

Bourne this unspoken reason

Why thy madness beckons me? 

To this wreckage of wilt

That lures Me back to thee

And this abundance of guilt. 

Look, The Sun Is Coming Up…

 

Look, the sun is coming up…

Watching The Squirrels Fly

Watching the squirrels fly

Through the air with ease

Effortlessly these flying 

Critters on their limb trapezes. 

The bushy-tailed critters love to steal

Every nut that can be heisted

Yet, come the cold wintertime

They become shortsighted. 

The absent-minded rodent

Forgot where he stashed the nuts

Digging through the snow

Reckless and starving like a putz.

 

All Is Not Well

 

I just got back from Hell

And all is not well. 

I drove my truck 

Into bad luck, 

Now, I'm fucked.

I sit here in Hell, 

And all is not well.

I lost my faith in the Almighty

Loving Aphrodite 

Now, it's good nighty.

I just got back from Hell

And all is not well.

Pseudepigrapha

 

As the bell tolled, resounding, it also told, 

of the death of the fallen Hero. His last 

quotidian day on earth and the detritus 

of memories that light up the contemptuous 

sorrow. The coward vacillates his gamble, yet

the Hero dies. His folie à deux: chasing freedom 

and some feebled belief in an unanswering god. 

We never know what nightmares lie curled 

beneath comfort’s pillow. Killing in 

the name of freedom with such 

heinous acts and calling this 

liberation is an alternative reality. 

Conquering the weak only represses

the hold on the masses. Kings are not

mortal; they rule by necessity and 

greed. A whipped horse obeys, yet

his eyes never forget the rack of

punishment he's endured. Revolt 

will come, and then all kings will 

bow unto the subservient soldier.

Chronology isn't kind to despots, 

kings, queens, and czars; let it be

written for the common man 

that no tyrant will ever control 

the world. 

An Hour in a Day

 

With not a worry in the world, I headed out in my car

listening to Bob Seger’s Main Street, 

Reclusive Tendencies

 

Reclusive Tendencies 

 

The boketto begins, no one is to blame.

Your meraki has fallen from your work.

You’ve travelled in silence to keep from 

screaming, this fanaa eats away like cancer.

You’ve never reached for any hand or smiled, yet

your futifaction glares back in gruesome hollowness.

Life’s become something more than you bargained for, you’ve 

squandered away all your hopes, and your last dream is vacated 

by grief. Once an oriflamme for misery now the only embrace

of comfort is sunshine. This adoxography placates your need to be heard

or accepted. Still, this Orphic is all you desire, you’re seldom

enthusiastic about some fancy mention of trivial wares, for your

 eudaimonia cannot be bought or secured by some shallow 

penchant. This genie won’t return her gift; one must first 

recognize one’s despair to begin to love what keeps you 

willfully alive. Death owes no promise to you, but living 

with the imperishable hope of retrieving this lost legitimacy 

is all that is required of this loathsome penance. You’ve lengthened 

your mind to vast catharsis, and worrying about death only shortened your life.  

 

- John Hardesty

 

©️1/23/2020

My Story

Hello, I'm John Timothy Hardesty. Please don't get up or upset over me.

I'm currently battling Cancer with an egg noodle. Heading to the Cleveland Cancer 

Center, where it’s like Hotel California, you can check in any time you like but you 

can never leave unless you're on a gurney or in a coffin. I previously had several 

tumors removed from my optic nerve and skull, one was so mammoth it cracked

my skull wide open like a nutshell. The doctor sealed me up, replugged me in, and

reprogrammed me back into society only to endure 33 bolted-down radiation 

treatments. When you're in remission you're on top of the world, yet after two 

years of clinic visits, doctor follow-ups, and scans after scans, they tell you

to have a seat, and then the oncologist screeches out almost like he enjoys to 

say it, “your tumor is back in your skull.”

I go home and I immediately start hurting in my head, either from 

psychosomatics or psycho-bananas. I'm Frankenstein with a new attitude. 

I was nourished on Hemingway early in life, his stories connected me right

into the plot, he took me everywhere with his creative narratives. Hemingway

had some moledro or voodoo on me, I knew him well, so I thought. I suffered

through the poets of Lord Byron, Tennyson, Shelley, Poe, Dante, Keats, and 

Shakespeare. I studied every great poet in every country over the span of forty 

years, and many, many great novelists too. 

Yet, L.E. Sissman had the most influential nexalune upon me. 

Sissman was the class Poet at Harvard in 1949, yet, he was cursed with Hodgkin 

Lymphoma at 37, yet produced some dark poetry that stands out to me. 

Dead People Don’t Dream(Haiku)

 

                   Dead people don't dream

                   Dead people don't walk about

                   Yet, ghosts speak loudly

                   

                   

The Bluegrass Tavern Chronicles(Chapter 11)

 

                                                          Chucky Mardis

                                                          Chapter 11

     Chuck Mardis was many characters. He was short in stature and frame yet was tall in laughter and loyalty. We called him many names, unashamedly: Leprechaun, Mayor of Munchkinville, and James Cagney. Chucky was a die-hard Notre Dame fan. He absolutely loved them. In 2001, right after the terrible 911 incident, my aging Uncle Mac Hardesty sold me two USC/Notre Dame tickets at South Bend; he was nearing 90, and couldn’t attend anymore. I called Chucky, the very first one, expecting him to go, all expenses paid for, but he declined, and this upset me. Before he died, he still never fulfilled his bucket list of seeing a great rival game, and you just can't walk in and get Notre Dame tickets to watch the Irish- impossible. When he died, I felt good about myself, inviting him, the very first person. 

     Chucky was very funny. A constant cut- up. Chucky wasn't a very well-read man, even though his family was very intelligent; Chuck preferred to work outside; he was a welder for Jeff Boat, a big shipbuilding company located in Louisville. Chuck, like all of us, got several weeks off during the year, and we all would head to Joe’s for a cold beer or two. We would either sit on a stool or shoot a game of pool. Chucky was a very quiet person; if he didn't know you well, he wouldn't speak to you, but his laugh could calm a rabid dog. Chuck worked many hard hours, often coming home with welder burns and countless welding flashes(photokeratitis), and years later caused him vision loss and lung cancer from breathing in all those welding fumes of nickel, magnesium, cadmium, and chromium. Sad to lose my best friend from this, and he received very little compensation too. I still want to call him at noon every day. 

     Chucky was a solitary man, lived alone in a run-down trailer, and he wasn't ashamed of it either. Gary Walker, another lost dear friend of ours, and I, on a Friday night, often would drift down where Chucky lived, a nice parcel of land with a well-stocked lake down in the woods, we would pull 5-pound bass and endless bluegills out of that lake, always catching and releasing, and the lake had an island equipped with two diving boards, a gas grill, and a picnic table, all in the center of the lake. We three would carry on down there until dark and then head up to Chucky’s dilapidated trailer. Chucky and Gary both loved their whiskey too, and the night would soon drift into way past midnight. I'd crash on Chuck’s couch, and Gary usually left or would lie on the floor, yet one time, Gary ventured out to his truck and brought out an air compressor and a blow-up bed, Chucky, and I rolled with laughter watching him blow up this air-bed, it took over half the living room, this balloon bed was huge, it looked like a kids' toy. Gary laid there in his blown up bouncing bed while discussing that his bed was a state-of-the-art apparatus, blah, blah, blah. I fell asleep, Chucky hit his bedroom, and I woke up right at dawn, and I saw Gary lying there on the floor on top of his deflated balloon bed. I busted out laughing, and I awoke Gary, and he thought I stuck a pin in it, which I vehemently denied. Chucky rose out of bed and saw Gary’s dilemma and burst out in that Irish cackle. We both talked about this for decades. I miss them both so much. 

Dogs on Shows and in Movies, and Personalities

 

1. Hart to Hart: Freeway(Lowchen-Shelter Dog)

2. The Waltons: Reckless(Golden Lab)

3. Adolf Hitler:  Blondi(German Shepherd)

4. Our Gang:     Petey(American Pit Bull)

5. Married With Children: Buck(Briard, French Shepherd) & Lucky(Cocker Spaniel Mix)

6. Baa Baa Black Sheep:  Meatball(Bull Terrier) 

7. Blondi(film series):   Daisy(mixed Cocker Spaniel, Poodle, and Terrier) 

8. Hazel(1960s sitcom): Smiley(Airedale Terrier) 

9. The Dukes of Hazzard:  Flash(Basset Hound)

10. Little House on the Prairie: Jack(Brindle Bulldog)

11. Humphrey Bogart: Harvey(Boxer), Baby(Boxer), George(Boxer); Zero(Scottish Terrier, played in the 1941 Classic movie, High Sierra); Cappy(Newfoundland), Sluggy(Scottish Terrier), Stinky(Scottish Terrier), and Mac(Scottish Terrier).

12. The Thin Man(movies): Asta(played by Skippy, Wire Fox Terrier)

The Bluegrass Tavern Chronicles(Chapter 10)

 

                                                          Tommy Cecil 

                                                           Chapter 10

     Joe Lawrence loved music, all kinds too, and I admired that about him. He often had bands from our local area come to play on the weekends. My first intervention with Tommy Cecil was on a Friday Night, playing an Eagles’ song, James Dean, then he followed up with David Bowie’s Suffragette City. Damn, this blew me and the whole audience there away! Tommy had a gift that few could ever master in twenty lifetimes. 

     Tommy wasn't educated at Harvard or Princeton, yet you could certainly say his erudition was an innate musical phenomenon. An idiot wanders; the smart man travels. Wisdom often comes with suffering. Solitude is a prescription for wisdom. Youth is the very first season of disappointment. I conjecture that Tommy’s French ancestry runs deep with Gallic euphonious minstrels. Tommy utilized this gift to perfection; one might even say he had a pact with the devil, or delved deep into the Codex Gigas, because he was a master. 

     Tommy was a reserved man of few words, yet when he sang, the women hovered around him like ancient elders around a campfire. How could a person like Tommy conjure up so much talent from modest surroundings? Tommy was quiet as a ghost in a monastery, yet patient as a marble bust. Tommy’s music is his universal gift, he's a profound musician who always thought his sound was superficial when haggling over the right magical chord. Like Tommy, we both received our knowledge from the same God-lit candle at St. Thomas. His conscience was as stark as Gabriel's, he could sleep through a hurricane; he had no enemies! 

   He played that mandolin magnificently, he was adroit as an octopus, and yes, I envied him, and for whom myself, was as adroit as a sloth-I'm no musician. Tommy was kind to everyone and very respectful of all who entered his charmed circle. Ignorance never won any battles, yet kindness wins every contest. 

     Tommy had brothers too, and I think all of them played music very well. The Cecil Family endured hardships like every Catholic family, yet never lost their faith in God. Tommy had that Adonis mysticism that served his profession well. Tommy handled many people’s egos like a psychiatrist, and he dealt with Joe’s obduracy better than anyone. He defused any misunderstanding with ease-ego decombustion! Tommy’s ethics and facon de vivre or art de vivre were his defining traits. 

     Tommy lived his entire life in Balltown, a small town just a few miles from Bardstown with his wife Melissa. Tommy kept to himself and with his family, I never saw him drunk or wasted. He wore his honor through his musical prowess, and that was enough for the world. If a Heaven exists, I'm quite sure the angels reserved a seat for him near the band. Memories are but captured moments lived in this sorrowful life; Tommy may pass away one day but through his music, his, ‘non omnis moriar’ echoes forever in the hall of fame at The Bluegrass Tavern.