A couple of times per year I organize a literary salon. Living on the 12th floor on the b-side of the building it is clear that the name had to be salon 12b. The view is exceptional and people love to come. Usually there will be food and homemade cakes (Rose's apple cake is famous and An's cheese pie too, just as the goulash soup Fred makes). The invited poets are a loose collection of people one gets to know and likes: from well honored poets (Peter Holvoet-Hanssen did a wonderful rendering of Global Night Car!) to the neophyte, just doing their first readings, an American busker with a conversation between Anaïs Nin and Jack Kerouac and a poet laureate. These evenings, when I still lived in Hoboken, were called 'Hoboken nights', and some people who show up now have participated in the very first of the Hoboken nights. It has become a place where people conquer their fear of reading for an audience, where one can try out what works and what not, and yes sometimes there is talk about the paint and turpentine of writing, the tools, the hurdles and people share freely their experiences. It is always a bit of work to prepare the evening, to see whether people are kind of at ease with each other. For me however it is always a voyage of discovery. Yesterday, anti ware poetry was read, referring to the first world war, a duo of two lifelong friends presented a book with each 15 poems, in a long and intriguing conversation which turned into an Ars Poetica. A try out of a translation into English. German poems from the book ‘Weiße Mühle’. I read from Traces/Sporen. Unciya spoke last about Leonard Peltier and distributed postcards to ask for his liberation.