The light is always that much more dull as it seems to enhance the inner neon lights as time passes.
Four walls and the heavy wooden rectangle are enough to enhance the American guitar’s dirty/soulful heavy vibrations.
Brass surrounds the rectangle. It’s turbid golden and morphs one’s image as the beer and the whiskey does to the surrounding audience.
The stage hosts 4 to 5 worn souls who have found themselves connected by the tunes of memories long pasts but that somehow seem relevant to new generations who understand them for banal reasons.
As the night’s precious minutes tick by, intoxication envelopes all and the light dulls even more. From the corner the man who continues to prove himself becomes louder and the woman whose partner’s lack of attention is apparent acts out on the dance floor.
The usuals look on:
The man who drinks for drinking’s sake chuckles.
A starving poet writes on his journal seeking approval that will never come.
Saturday’s jolly pairing orders their usual wine and beer combo.
The seconds tick on by and the night crawls to it’s eventual end. Bills are paid, feuds started or ended, couples brought together or torn apart, and decisions are made all around.
The poet inks his last few stanzas and walks on home. Only to do it again, very very soon.
Eventually, someone turns off the neon.
