Smells like Home

The smell of domestic beer and coffee drafts around everything.
So odd and sinful the way it seems to match.
Hometown and Heavenly mixed perfectly.
Chalkboard signs and local paintings wrap themselves around the rooms.
Some of the paintings hauntingly resemble teenagers from my childhood.
It's a warm heartache found in the wood warping of an over used building.
No other place to go; Here I am 8 years later in the same place, even changed as it has.
The music invading my mind is so blue and indie.
The brass ashtray is some flea market prize much like the rest of the mismatched garage sale furnishings scattered around me.

The strangers in the table down from me drink their kids away.
The mystery out of town man wandering the room finally takes a seat with the couple.
Maybe I should've executed some southern hospitality to the guy instead of ignoring the way he circled my table waiting for an invite.
I'd much rather just watch everyone be fake and introduce each other to their representitives than put my mask on.
How odd that a few of these folks manage to ruin their karma in a place with a setting to promote soundness.

Upon closer inspection of the walls, these paintings are not haunting at all, but truth.
A candy kid I knew back in the day has his named signed in the corner.
There is no need for me to read the sales tag, I know most every face he has painted here.
The celebrities that defined our teenage years, and the teenagers themselves are captured forever with spray paint on canvas or wood.
This entire place embraces the culture and convictions we thought we were fighting for in a small town of nothing but religion.
It's almost amusing how at home this feels.
I thought I had outgrown this feeling.
No one should ever be too old to feel at home and at peace.

Before it changed repeatedly over the years, it was almost this.
We use to sit every weekend ten feet to my left.
We drank far too much coffee and lounged in large leather or wicker furniture.
Now I watch guys the age I wish I could be again play chess.
I have every intention of finishing this beer, my house blend in this cup, and beating them at a game before the band starts.

The place quickly fills up, possibly because there are six tables and a coffee table to fill the space provided.
Outside might be nice to escape the small crowd of people that I do not care for, but the loss off my Bob Dylan serenade would be depressing.

Some things about a "bar", no matter what you try to call it, remain the same.
I can't help but snicker at the familiar beer arguement already taking place.
Domestic is so tasteless.
American might as well be water.
European is so colorful.
Imports are so flavorful and sophisticated.
Everyone drinks for the same reason, therefore the arguement quickly becomes pointless.
It should not matter what it taste like when you swallow your fun and sorrow.
Perhaps that is my problem, maybe I should care what my laughter taste like as it sloshes in my mouth.
Even more so, maybe I should be concerned if my bitterness tastes properly going down my throat.
I'm sorry I lack the ability to give a fuck about such things.

Damn, this place smells like home...