Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Two

James H Duncan


no kilkenny on tap, 'cause this ain't Montreal whose streets flood with mordant joy but a colder, deeper Bowery pub any old dark pint will do, set down and simmering cold, the first heady sip like waking up at 8pm with the whole of Friday night ahead with so little to follow but a mile-wide weekend fermenting with traveled friends touching down for a midnight riot of jazz excitement pounding the floor ecstasy beats rising through legs like sunflowers on fire and shivering for the sun to love — yeah, that kind of jazz, not dancing, just feeling eternal through the bones, dark beer through the veins, electricity talking high back and forth dark night madness of friends who never met and no, this isn't Montreal, but some nights don't need northern comforts, just a pool room clacking in a background fever and beer and thoughts about poetry seeping into the conversation, not spoken, just known in the background and saved for later when the lights go out and the feet beat against cold cement sidewalks, no more jazz, no friends just the long walk home on a Sunday night with a pocket full of notes and eyes full of moon dreaming of dark beer riots and dying a little each day until waking up Friday night, 8pm again