Thursday, April 9, 2020
Tom McDade - Two Poems
1. A Shock of Oil and Color
Framed here as naked as Godiva is a damsel,
crotch welded in imminent climax and firm
breasts like pleasant spurs; face full of ecstasy,
her steed assigned the frenzied role.
How closely allied are ecstasy and frenzy?
That stud is the shade of the purest chocolate
and this rider might be planning a way to slip
under him to enjoy his sweet thrusts
with hope of birthing a female satyr.
` She’s fair-skinned and her long, blazing hair mimics
his shaggy mane. What is with this flying equine,
eye crazed and froth spilling from his mouth?
No chance we have a filly or mare, sheath quite
visible. Is he reacting to the weight of this
Rubenesque beauty? Wait a minute –
that belly. Has he done the deed? Is he attempting
to flee? My God, his front legs are like those
on a monster film horsefly. Away from this shock
of oil and color: what fantasies, what rolls
in the hay, what nightmares.
Thomas M. McDade
2. Merc Park
If I am dreamed but once, I have access to memories.
I slip through
make myself handsome
forget this lifetime
I fell from the castle
when Sinatra still knew
all the lyrics
to “Funny Valentine.”
I drank Thunderbird
with a madman
sporting razor hooks
The bikers fear him!
I hotwire a Merc, dull grey, lowered, louvered
4 on the floor skirts
hellfire decals everywhere hubcaps silver moons
a plaque dangling off the rear tag
“LOVE DON’T CARE”
that sparks the road
when the clutch goes pop!
There is a suicide knob
where a beautiful woman lives.
The thought of her launches duck-tailed knights
into frenzied dances on high voltage wires.
Suddenly she appears in a holy light
filtered through lenses of Budweiser glass.
She is a saint lighting candles on the hood
with spaghetti sticks
for the IRA dead,
a runt calico kitten
hisses from her shoulder.
We ride to Twila’s
trendy tattoo salon. Bells of Ireland
drawn on our necks. She says she cares
and grips my arm strong as Jack Daniels.
Sparks trail the Merc like fireflies or passion
of beaches, graveyard grass.
And wouldn’t the Druids book
us passage on a hot air balloon
across the Irish Sea? Take us to a castle
where her blood
will find good pace
and if there is no chair or bed
the stone floor will soften
like the headstones of soldiers
and writers under prayer.
I stare into her eyes as if they were crystal
hanging from the rear view in a New Age van
and incense seeps through
the floorboards like an
aroma of Kent cigarette.
The radio crooner sings of a dame,
a tall drink of Ballantine
slick as Tru-Ade Grape.
Then Father Knickerbocker interrupts
with a sermon says it’s okay for cripples to ride
boxcars and play harmonicas
to the wind blowing
through their braces like hymns.
He adds that all distillery profits
should benefit the homeless.
Hooker shows up to carve our initials
in a tree spelling
“In dreams find memory.”
He claims he can croon
“Valentine” straight through, prosthesis for a microphone,
but the melody would ring rather false
with classic beauty around.
He pulls a Polaroid
from under a passing swan’s wing.
Snapping her picture
a hundred times,
she does not protest
but allows just profile.
I watch her develop
silent as a hex bolt
as she became each time
shiny and crispy.
We feed the loons
trail mix and bagels until she disappears.
The photos are nothing but unpublished poems
with names of Triple Crown winners for titles.
My belles of Ireland cause rashes.
The Merc turns into a picnic table where the madman
crosses his metallics and she returns
in a silver sedan.
Surely what’s spoken
in tongues through a Buick window
is grand –
goes without saying.
Thomas M. McDade