One Night In The Bergman

02MAY07 – The Bergman, late Saturday morning. This is the same bar where the Birdman of Alcatraz made his first kill, as I understand it. The only thing red here tonight is the glass of wine in my left hand, and the cherry of a fresh cigarette caught tenderly between my lips. Yes, I’m a little drunk. Make a big deal of it, why doncha? Someone’s playing ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia’ on the stereo, and for once the song makes sense.

Hard to believe the largest part of the last ten years will be over soon. We fought, we argued, we did our best. It couldn’t have been all that bad – nobody died and nobody went to jail.

The snow is raging something fierce out there tonight; white wind whipping and driving, digging at me. Jesus, I haven’t had anything that determined to take my clothes off in awhile!

Not in the mood to think on it though. Trying hard to envision white paper. Yes, accept the situation. Tonight is a beautiful woman, the kind with with long curling tresses and eyes that draw you in so deep you can’t see the knife until it’s too late. One of those soft, mad nights that begs to go on a little longer. Yet, in all of history, there’s not been one person afforded that honor; not Morrison, not Wilde, not Parker, not Hendrix, not Elvis, not Hicks.., shit, not even Thompson – no matter how wild their nights, how powerful their drugs, how sweet the wine, how loud the music, how willing the women, none of them could stop the clock. They just didn’t hit the wall hard enough.

Death is Nature’s Bartender: “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”



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