Quiet Requiescat

The years marshaled through the scattering

swaddle, septenary, jubilee, and wake; from 

ovum to man, tenancy to bankruptcy, and 

ignorance to erudition cloistered away from 

the foul of mankind, shunning the doctrines of

all religion, no animal or human shall be shackled

and fettered with threatening control by elderly

kooks; the sinewy resentment abides by only

one principle: instinct. Let no lark, siren, and 

apparition upend this callous vengeance, for truism

and truth needs no validity from some artless

pitchfork-wielding sinister who collude with 

Satan himself, hold your prayers, thoughts, and 

condolences for some brittle, God-peccant, acolyte

who couldn’t separate goats from sheep, and last of 

all, you mordant loving God-sociopaths take your

judgment, hatred, supreme self-centeredness and

bury it with your hypocrisy deep within this dying earth

and find your terminus an everlasting stone of refuge 

with eternity and nothing more after. 

The Bluegrass Tavern(Chapter 8)

 

                                               Wayne “Pinky” McMichael         

                                                       Chapter 8

     Wayne “Pinky” McMichael was an established bar patron at Joe’s since the beginning of time, like many who walked through the doors at Joe’s was fresh out of the Military, he had curly hair that equaled Shirley Temple, though Pinky could shoot pool, and never played with tiddlywinks, high stakes, he used to play for $100 a game, and won. He was a very generous man too and bought drinks for the mob of swill drinkers who wouldn't give him a look back much less a thank you, but that was the pure Irish in him. His karma was instant access to love, he saw the world in HD while others saw it in black and white, he wasn't methodical in any elaborate scheme, just a kind loving man who loved his cold refreshing mug of beer after a long day working in construction. 

     I got to know him at the epic card games we played at the Tavern on Friday nights, he loved his Budweisers, not Bud Light, and we carried on too, laughing and chugging beer like it was in short supply, Pinky could drink a keg and maintain a conversation, his witticisms were an asset that broke the ice, and he was a Micawber, who believed everything was an eternal joke, so drink up and worry about the next day when it comes. 

     Pinky was a loner too, you can tell a woman or two broke him literally and spiritually, or that's my assumption, maybe not. But, he sat many times at the bar drinking by himself and with gratifying contentment, 

The Bluegrass Tavern Chronicles(Chapter 7)

 

                                 Jimmy Smith(Tall Glass of Moonshine)    

                                                  Chapter 7

     I met Jimmy through Joe, they had juxtaposed homes right next to the Tavern, and he looked like he could play for the Boston Celtics as a power forward-a tall glass of moonshine. Jimmy or the sobriquet we used was Smitty who worked at G.E. alongside many who frequent Joe’s place. Jimmy was a decent pool shooter but as the years whittled away I rarely saw him shoot, but he was a cabinet member of the tavern, and that being said, a cabinet member had those fringe benefits that usurped or commandeered the bar at any moment without jurisdiction restrictions, other words, he could walk behind the bar and grab a mug or beer and walk off but he always placed his money on the register. 

      Jimmy had a cool and calm demeanor yet I saw him enraged a few times over mindless, petty, and ridiculous things and he seem to get rattled quite easily, a few times I thought possibly he's unhinged, but he always simmered down, like I said a tall glass of moonshine, very unpredictable man. I had a few run-ins and spurting of mouths from Jimmy and I never wanted trouble, and some days he just didn't seem square with the world, one never knows what plagues a man’s mind. I kept my distance, and always had my gun, and that's an edge he never knew and I was quite the marksman, but thank God, it never came to that, we apologized to each other, and looking back, one person was shot dead in that establishment, and I'm surprised there wasn't more, lots of trouble brewing in that environment where tempers were often impaired by judgment and agility, I'm very surprised it wasn't closed down, and I saw so many fights, that I’ll revisit in another chapter soon. 

    I am not leaving out anything or truths when I'm chronicling this epic narrative. I have witnessed everything that I write in this diary. Jimmy Smith is a great family man, and he had some faith in God and was a devoted Catholic, yet, when he was in a bad mood it was best to place some distance from him and yourself. I still love ole Jimmy Boy, he always made a funny crack that instantly made you laugh, even though he was a tall glass of moonshine. Jimmy Smith has my nomination to the Bluegrass Tavern Hall of Fame, hands down. Peace and love to Smitty. 

The Bluegrass Tavern Chronicles(Chapter 6)

                                                     Gary Walker(Standup Comedian)

                                                               Chapter 6

     I met Gary Walker at another nightclub called the Cabin Hill in the mid-1970s when he was fresh out of the Army and I think he was in management, so he said, at that time I met him he was managing a fresh rolled joint, and he had that loyal charm of decency, an heir of generosity about him, and someone you immediately could trust. He made me laugh so hard, his witty remarks were spontaneous and sharp, kind of like Johnny Carson in the sense of retrieving these quips at the modem speed of 1,000 terabytes per second, in other words, a sound intellectual mind. 

     Gary hung out at Joe’s during the weeknights, as we all did, Gary kept everyone entertained with a fresh joke, usually dirty ones too, Gary often drank beer and sipped his whiskey for an extra kick, and everyone loved Gary, he was our Norm of Cheers, no person could match his quick-draw retorts, and sometimes he could offend with his barbs, and they were always unintentional, though a few drunks seem to be accosted by Gary’s rapier tongue and Joe would have to step in and calm things down but after they got to know Gary a little better it was all love.

     Mary Jane Hamilton told Gary to start doing standup comedy, but Gary needed more coaxing, he seem to suffer from low self-esteem when it came to performing on stage, so, Gary on his spare time wrote down his comedy routine, honed and toned his sketches, and entered his name at The Comedy Caravan, on open mike night. The Bluegrass Tavern gang all loaded up and headed to Louisville to watch Gary perform his first and last audition at The Comedy Caravan the crowd went insane, they loved him, and he was the best newcomer that night, management told him to work on more material and offered him a spot on their traveling venue and show across the country. Gary never knew how successful he could've been because he just couldn't abandon his wife and family, so, he conquered his fear but his dream never won that fortune and fame. 

    Gary Walker seemed to always have some anodyne to help people suffering, a causal joke from him always broke the “suton” of the grief-stricken crisis at hand. His mantra of living was always an irenic place of love and peace. I can say, he’s been more of a friend to me over these years than I deserve, his warmth and wit are always welcome and I can attest and say God loves him too. Gary Walker deserves to be in the Bluegrass Tavern Hall of Fame, I’ll say that under oath and to the highest court. God bless my dearest friend, Gary Walker forever. 

The Bluegrass Tavern Chronicles(Chapter 5)

                                                           Mike Guthrie(Artist)

                                                                 Chapter 5

     Mike Guthrie was an Artist nonpareil. He swept in from the yards of an epilogue in the Summer of 1976, there in the blot of time he forever changed the Bluegrass Tavern’s landscape. I met him personally at the age of 17 and thought to myself, what an artist, I immediately wanted to be an artist or painter, that's what kind of gravitational influence he had, and nothing was intentional. He and Joe could talk for hours, and I think, and I'm not certain, but he and Joe had an agreement that Mike could paint anything at the tavern and have an endless free flow of draft beer because I never saw him pay for one mug of beer. 

     Mike knew the pigments of colors and he was a gilded lector of color history too, he could exfoliate the difference between hues and shadows, as he once said, “colors exhibit their own story.” He dappled in something unique every day at Joe’s, he loved his mug of grog and that seem to open up his glorious mind. I would race to Joe’s from my duties at Nelson county high school just to catch Mike working on a project. He liked me, and he always took a break to talk to me, he was doing tedious lettering artwork one day and even that was sublime but he asked me to make up a short quote, and I obliged with, “Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most.” He painted it with his unique calligraphy, and said, “Tim, you should become a poet.” I never told him the quote was from Ozzy Osborne, and I swear still to this day, they never knew. That plaque of the quote hung on the wall at Joe’s for years until some thief stole it, I always wanted that piece, just to remember my dearest friend, Mike. 

     Mike would entertain me for hours with endless art history and trivia, he immersed me with this fortuitous knowledge, Mike said that Art used to be an Olympic event; and the Spanish artist Francisco Goya and several other great painters went mad painting their artwork because they used paint that had lead and mercury in them and the fumes were very toxic and deadly, breathing in these paints causes you to go mad first then kills you, and cadmium yellow, cadmium red, and cadmium orange was used by all early painters and artists, and Goya became mad and went insane. 

     Mike’s eyes were bluer than a North Carolina skyline, I called him ole Paul Newman because no other two humans on earth had those deep blue eyes like them. Those blue orbs caught more sunlight and saw more magic than most will ever see in a lifetime. A rare syzygy indeed occurred when Mike was born, he alone was an incredible and aureate mentor to me, he was arcane and selcouth as artists go but as I sonder in skepticism and wallow in my pathetic onism, I’ll always remember my friend, Mike, when the mnesic of melancholy strikes me on some rainy day, I'll remember those rainy and snowy days at Joe’s when Mike was painting his magma opus, Secretariat, on the back wall, which now has been replaced by Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night by another incredible artist none other than Mike’s son Noah, is truly remarkable too. Mike Guthrie is a strong candidate for the most popular connection of the Bluegrass Tavern’s Hall of Fame, his artwork used to hang in Joe’s place like a haunting museum. Mike Guthrie, was a pleasure to write this “feelstora” and save me brush and palette on the other side. 

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.