Shrimp Pancho Villa - Thomas Michael McDade

Carol traveled alone

to Chichenitzá

like an archeologist

on a “B” movie bus

in search of a Mayan

cure for her mate

on his death chaise

by a pool

at a Cancun hotel.

She noted no  passengers

making the sign of the cross

like the mob on the ferry

to Isla Mujeres did

to keep the craft afloat.

Bad springs and worse road

failed to turn her stomach.

She returned without

an antidote but was amazed

at the ruins, especially

the pyramids.

She still talks of them

and they tailspin

in my mind and gut

like stealth bombers

on germ warfare missions.

The legendary outlaw

fires six-shooters

at the sky to celebrate

a plague or two and mocks me

by downing a dozen toxins.

Wearing a bandolier

across his chest he feeds

his favorite seafood cuisine

to smitten Mayan Goddesses–

his mustachio curled like asps

for Cleopatra and her

pyramids.

Izmir, Turkey - Thomas Michael McDade

Weight was for sale,

men carried bathroom scales.

The guy who shined

my shoes had a portrait

of Marilyn Monroe

on the side of his box.

A timer bell signaled

when the job was done,

and a taxi pulled up

(Jayne Mansfield

painted on the door).

All the cars were

vintage American.

Some were like those my

father had owned but these

Turkish chariots were mint.

I chose not to smoke

a Hookah and took the safe

route in a pipe shop (photos

of Tony Curtis and Charles

Bronson decorating the wall).

The proprietor sold me

the Meerschaum model he

swore those stars favored.

Weight salesmen made

their pitches as I left the store

and it didn’t occur to me

that they were curious

as to just how much

the average sucker weighed.

The pipe was a work of art

but neither blow torch

nor Hollywood

special effects could

have broken in

that precious son of a “B”

movie.

Corsica, June 12, 1975 - Thomas Michael McDade

The statue of Napoleon

was huge and Jim Graden

mimicked Napoleon’s

hand inside his coat

and I sang what I could

recall of the old hit “Waterloo.”

As we tasted our first crepes

schoolgirls practiced

English on us

and a career boatswain

serenaded a barmaid,

promised an allotment.

After exchanging dollars

at the Banque de Worms,

we walked around

a poppy-filled park occasionally

stopping to study the artwork

on our fancy new money.

Seamen in our thirties, when most

enlisted our age were chiefs,

we ruled out getting drunk.

We smoked Rum Crooks

and I kicked off the spending

by paying a hefty fee for Kerouac’s

The Town and the City.

I bought a Herald Tribune;

to check baseball standings.

Shoemaker rode my pick, Avatar

to victory in the Belmont Stakes.

Jim’s splurge was more exciting.

He said he might become

the first U.S. sailor to smuggle

French fireworks into the States

and I didn’t argue.

I note that distinction

often on the phone and

Jim recaps his imported

pyrotechnic show –

a Two Harbors,

Minnesota sky raging

like a giant emperor

holding court on those who

dared to take his ponderous

bronze lightly –

some duds mimicking

bee swarms in their fall.

Lord Byron’s Lips - Thomas Michael McDade

Lord Byron stands in

the Borghese Gardens

atop a block marked

with lines from “Childe

Harold's Pilgrimage.”

Rome is hot,

the poet sweats,

imagines a grotto

in La Spezia and a plaque

listing his aquatic feats.

On San Lazzaro

where he fled Venice

to learn Armenian,

I visit his study.

I view his pen, inkwell,

and scrawled autograph.

I try his meditation hill.

My guide who looks like

St. Jerome, says Byron

swam here hoping to leave

his imagination behind.

Byron stares from

his portrait with lips

puckered from an Adriatic

crawl, or love, as I pay

the cleric 5,000 lire

for the tour and inhale

any castoff Byronic fancy.

Whether I see him swimming

beside the boat-bus back or

it's just drizzle casting me

into a time dissolve

is anybody’s guess

but mine.

Reappearing following

my fifth or sixth bottle of puke poor

Peroni, I invite him and his Childe

Harold to doctor their lips

wet their whistles if

heroic enough.