The Bar

The Bar

He moves like his joints pain him, this man

who sits next to me, staring into his glass

as though the depth of the

amber liquid might hold

answers to a problem he cannot voice aloud

in the dark basement bar

on Franklin Street.

Cold stone walls, concrete floor

drinking in light, leaving us alone in

darkness where,

unseen by some,

watched by all,

we have gathered clutching drinks

that will make us immune to pain,

to emotions,

to memories.

We line up, sinners in a sanctuary

kneeling against pews,

glasses clutched in our hands

in prayer.

I never believed in prayer any of

the three times I was dragged along

to Sunday service,

not kicking and screaming like my brother,

but as a silent protester amongst

the throng of cheerful, dutiful churchgoers

who were simply happy to see a new face

join their family.

I remember a man standing on stage

in the enormous room

filled to capacity.

He spread his arms wide and told me

I wasn’t okay.

He said it with a grin on his face.

As I stared at him, his grin

grew wider and wider until split his face in half.

It dripped off onto the floor.

The people cheered for him,

like the bar patrons cheer when the especially drunk girl

takes another shot.

The man on stage is in the crowd now

with half a face, applauding and telling her

she isn’t okay.

But this isn’t the enormous room.

Here, everybody is okay. Anybody who says

otherwise is immediately drowned out with

a holy chorus of  “fuckyou”’s and “asshole”’s.

Here, there is no judgment.

Not from man, not from god,

except perhaps Dionysus whose only concern

is why the law student who has an exam in the morning

is still sober enough to drive himself home.

His agents surround the poor bastard,

delivering the divine word of their lord in the form of

Irish car bombs and angry balls.

There’s anger now. The law student wants to leave.

The messengers don’t want him to go.

Hazes of emotion and shouting and swearing

and suddenly I don’t want to be here anymore.

It’s not because of the fighting -

there’s enough Irish in me that I don’t mind the fighting -

it suddenly feels too small.

Hot. Drink does nothing to cool it.

If I were somebody else, I might feel tears on my face.

I used to be the one who wanted to leave.

I don’t want anything anymore.

That makes me mad. Makes me want to march over there,

grab the law student by the shirt and force him to stay

because this is somewhere you come

when you don’t want to leave.

Nihilism is unbecoming.

Like the man who stood on stage and smiled

while he told a group of people that they

were not okay.

Here, nihilism is hedonism

as the liquid flows

running down the sides of cups

and spilling down the front of a button-up shirt

and a blouse, unnoticed by the dancers

who laugh and forget

that sunrise is now closer than sunset.

He forgets that he has a girlfriend who went to bed

I don't think I could ever find a better picture of this place. Something in the way this is taken captures perfectly the way I think about it.

Inspirational Works:

The Verve, Bitter Sweet Symphony

• When writing this poem, there was one line I kept coming back to: Nihilism is unbecoming. The idea of nihilism is something every angsty high school kid is fascinated with, and I was no exception. It's only worrying when it comes back to you later in life. This song is one of the most beautiful examinations of the idea of nihilism I can think of: the feeling of isolation and insulation from the things that are supposed to matter. It doesn't praise it, it simply examines it.