Life On Mars: A Eulogy

by Joanna

Dirt.

Stinking sweat, piss, and spilled beer,

all made foul by the heat.

Fruit flies make the experience just a bit more…

Putrid.

27 years.

A rockstar death.

Death to the

intercourse of wanton desires.

Death to the

endless stream of drugs and druggies,

and irregular neighborhood hijinx.

The amount of hours spent festering,

rotting with the wood around the bar,

make most of the faces blur together as the light fades.

Plunging into the depths of so many dark corridors,

twisting forth through the late hours…

A place of refuge,

a place of refuse,

Collecting in the cracks of the carvings

and sagging separating boards.

Generous shots were always on hand,

(Although we all knew your secret, Hank)

And…

Damn.

Ray-belle, where will you go now?

(Still wandering around the old neighborhood, I suppose)

The last leg of the buffalo has been given to the fire.

The last contact with a past that,

although recalled in a smoky haze,

will continue to disintigrate.

Goodbye Mars.

Lost among the sea of prefab brick and glass,

towering over history that crumbles in the shadows.

A family has been dispersed,

as if struck with mortar.

Stone and dust flood the lungs.

It rivals a punch to the stomach.

As days and weeks and months pass,

This building will indeed fall,

like so many others,

smeared out from physical existence,

as though the value of real estate is more important

than the crushing of iconic locales.

We will find new places to go.

New scenery to wile away the nights and afternoons,

but none will truly suffice to represent the generations

of rowdy, spiky, loud and crazy motherfuckers.

A veritable parade of freak shows,

animals, and lost souls of the universe.

Eras ebb and flow.

We pick up the pieces.

We live.

We die.

We move on down the road.

We exhale,

and the winds shift our sails again. 

The Mars Bar was located at 25 East 1st St. in Manhattan, and served as a trading post, of sorts. I spent many of the last days on edge, with all the others, waiting for the ax to fall. It was a dysfunctional Cheers, with the best jukebox ever. Many lives were changed through the intersections of paths there. For 27 years, it served a dark purpose. Death occurred at the end of a particularly hot summer week during July of 2011. I wrote this immediately upon discovering the candlelight vigil that was taking place outside the day the doors were locked for good. This is my way of saying good-bye. RIP Marz. 

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