There is a bar in the distance. There always has been. I suppose there always will be. It’s a place of dreams and nightmares. It’s the crossroads of lust and loneliness, with Steve Vai on guitar and the devil on the jukebox. People go there to drown their memories or make new ones. They go there to get fucked, up and over. They hope for drunk women, rich men, and any stereotype that can fit in a bottle. It’s something for everyone, glory days and glory holes. It’s nothing to all of them, cigarettes and regrets.
There is a bar in the distance and it haunts me. I have kissed its whisky and held its microphone to my warm, numb lips, breathing the ghosts of Eric Clapton and Young MC into the blank, screaming face of its masses. I have stumbled from it’s doors and busted through them like gangbusters.
There is a bar in the distance and it haunts me with late night voices and screams in the dark. 2am no longer finds me in this place or that, but home, wishing I could shut the sounds out- the carrying of motorcycles and mufflers stretched the size of Richard Gere’s gerbil cage. They wake me with the cries I no longer cry and the fights I never started.
I have been a thrower of caution to the wind, and now, in the corners of the night, it returns softly upon me, and I am the one that breaks the fall.