noire

Devil’s Elbow

bernardsbarnes Poetry , , , , ,
brewing
The night I saw her at The Devil’s Elbow
the tramp in the square’s twilight terrors
split the night’s soft toddle of music from Chambar.
It was the kind of bar, I thought as I trundled past,
where you were supposed to meet someone like her.
And it was one of those nights, too.
A night known to poets and soldiers alike
in troubled nights of pacing paneled floors
or waiting in the barracks.
Advertisements

Jack, or was it Jake?

bernardsbarnes A Night at Marcy's, Continuing Fiction, Short Fiction , , , , , , , ,

16592440438_5e8df05e10_h

I.

Jack. Or Jake. I don’t exactly know for sure, ’cause everybody used to call the cat one or the other.

One night old Paul’d be in and see the skinny cat hangin’ out in his usual spot at the end of the counter. He’d holler, “How you been, Jake?” And cat would nod and say somethin’ like, “Not bad,” or what have you. Continue reading →