Whiskey and Jazz by George Gad Economou

a small place I frequented for a couple of months,

after I met someone who introduced me to the place—

I saw her for a week, but, I kept going to the little underground bar. 

it was small and heavy smoke filled the air; they

played jazz music, on record, and served

good, cheap bourbon. 

most patrons were lost souls, their

exhausted eyes betrayed their nature—only exception the

occasional couple on a first, or second, date

trying to impress each other with their cultural literacy. 

for me, jazz was always sacred for what it represented, 

the struggle and pain the songs emanate and the way

the drum is beat, the trumpet blown, the guitar strings hit. 

I smoked, drank, and peered at the empty-gazed patrons, 

all lost in whirling thoughts of gone yesteryears, or dreams still afoot. 

Four Roses rebirths memories of that little den, 

every sip reanimates another empty-gazed man or woman

sitting on a neighboring table, gawking dead ahead at the vast nothingness,

waiting for a response to the great questions of tomorrow. 

I’ve forgotten more than I can remember,

the occasional epiphany begets a smile on my tired face

while I seek employment in a devastated economy, trying

to put my non-existent skills to some use for an easy buck.

I remember the stunning blonde that sat on my table one night

and ordered a whole bottle of Four Roses; we drained

it and still stood still. 

she had lost everything to a perky secretary with a tighter body and bigger tits

(her words, not mine) and wanted a way out; 

why the hell she thought I was her coveted way out, I never learned. 

she sneaked out of my apartment the very next morning

and nothing was missing (aside from the bourbon we drank before, during, and after

sex).

I never saw her again; never even learned her name. 

did she leave like a thief because she saw the needle and the 8ball of junk

atop my copy of Better than Sex? 

did she simply get what she wanted and had no further use of me? 

some of the questions to ask the grand void next time I drink

Four Roses in a small underground jazz bar; at any rate,

for now, I’m drinking Four Roses under the Athenian moon,

the Acropolis is too far away, yet I sense its majestic presence, 

the spirit of an ancient encourages me to find my way to the world; 

I choke down my drink, smile at the night sky, 

and polish off the joint that brought on these images

of the jazz bar from so long ago it feels like it never existed.

Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and supports his writing by doing freelance jobs whenever he can get them. Has published a novella, Letters to S. (Storylandia) and a poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books). His drunken words have appeared in various literary magazines and outlets, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Fixator Press, Piker’s Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.