by Duncan McNaughton

Were you there the night the dogs barked in
Banja Luka? I was, with a one–armed
Irish nurse and her spinster sister that was
wanting an arm too. Odds we called them. The
mosques disappeared overnight. The mayor
explained their absence by denying they’d
ever been there in the first place. When the
long knives came out the hidden imam took
off for Galway where he is staying put
for now. Behind the Irish Curtain. SÌ,
hay muchos perros.

                              You’re right, some wee folk
come from Galway. I met those two where the
rabbits live. By the birdbath. One thing I
liked about them, they were quick to tell you,
and anyone else who should know better,
“You should know better!” They’ve had a lot of
practice. “Give them something to think about
rather than recognize,” they told me, “something
that’s here but hasn’t a name.”
                                                Can we get
some perspective on this? “Be still. Be quiet,”
they said. “Words can be lovers too.”

by Duncan McNaughton

The doctor in spite of something or
other, himself I suppose, or the ghosts,
we mustn’t forget them we grew up with,
not now that we are soon to become one.
You couldn’t leave him alone enough.
                                                             Why

the color of the water dragon is
that of a fiery flame was puzzling
him. He asked one of the Chinese girls, a
monkey, she didn’t know. What’s a monkey?
She smiled. We don’t have monkeys, he said, in
“Scotland.”
                   Anyway, the same as the Sun.

We have monkies, though, he said. Wee monks that
live with the monkies. They’re not supposed to.

The way he saw it was, he said. When we
won’t have it, we won’t, will we? But right now
we do. He was reaching over to feel
her leg with his hand. Reaching over his
hand to feel her leg. He was saying, Do
you fancy omens?, when on its own ticket
the lid of the Mason jar popped. She smiled.

He could be what he was not. In this case
he was a hard–boiled egg.
                                        Doc Huevón.

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.

by Duncan McNaughton

Carlisle, the tailor, though otherwise a
clumsy man, sat taking his ale and a
helping of rhubarb–serviceberry pie.
The last of an overcast, foggy day
added to the dimness that had settled
on his thoughts. The discreet Chinese bell
that hung from his shop door seldom chimed any,
Sartorialismo, along with so
much else that had once made humane sense, had
been tossed to the dustbin. Those days were gone
from Saskatoon. Bankers had become worms, the
barons of commerce and politics, worms,
the gamblers and sharps gusanos all. The
old class of gentlemen brought in their shirts
for the collars to be turned, their fabrics
were fine, buttonhole stitch was respected,
waste hadn’t become a virtue. Appearance
had been understood to be a metaphor.

Carlisle’s rooms were above the shop, ample
enough for himself and the Cree woman
that looked after them and him. Grateful as
she was for his silences and he for hers.
He’d picked up enough of her tribal speech,
she of his native Spanish. Neither cared
much for Colonial English, but then —

in cold weather they skated together,
arm in arm, when the pond was a mirror.