News, To Me

by Duncan McNaughton

Bunch of riders got together, formed a
club, The Bychos, though not as simple as
that. At the county jail there were two white
guys. Church organist from Toronto, three
months / parking tickets; and Mad Bear, a year
because of his old lady. Half dozen
big tough sensible black guys waiting on
trials. Mad Bear, total tattoos, was a
Vulture. The warden, German name, was a
ramrod. His son was a guard, at Attica,
one of the hostages. Neat block letters with
drawings, everything Mad Bear wrote was
what he was going to do. The brothers
said, C’mon, man, that bitch is not worth more
tsouris. In short, the day after he got
out he wasted his old lady. The son
came out in a bag. You could’ve heard a
pin drop, or a dumbell, on a bullet.
Got him at the clubhouse. Pretty much like
any gentleman’s club, trick bookcases,
leather–topped toilet seats, cocaine, shrunken
heads. Whiskey neat from the neck. Well, Mr.
Holmes! We’re honored. Your celebrity goes
before you. And this must be Dr. Kerouac.
Jack handed the derringer to the sleuth,
who discharged it before handing it back.
The whiskered clubman toppled into an
armchair despite that it had been a blank.
Was Rockefeller that decided to
push the button. Before or after his
wife burned down the house, before or after
he gave Kissinger to Nixon, I don’t
remember. Before he crapped out getting
laid. They used to own Venezuela. Her
name was Happy. You couldn’t make up this
stuff if you wanted to. Later that year
Watson got me a job on blast furnace J.
I mention it because I just found out
they don’t use steel–toed boots anymore. Too
many heavy drops sliced too many toes.
If you are expecting poetry to
tell you something you can use, you better
reconsider the wing’s on the poet’s sandals
and the rules of the game Elegua plays.