Once the pitchman felt full awakened he felt the dread of resurrection as a shepherd . Milky blue lunches at bottoms of bags in curlicues of snow. Scraps of leather, in tarnished vats seem to wind up soles of his shoes. But plaguing him most was he could have sold though yes he did sell, electric barbed wire by the dozen yards. Without an inkling, of whoever he was looking forward, scouring the sky blue eyes fading.. The face of a man as a rhesus monkey; so timid and curious he tugs on my sleeve. For my own protection to become walled off I find myself walking across the sodden field. More what I wanted, anything of promise. Cleansing of the gut, is a panicked appeal for change of habitat to one that’s weakest. Likewise I am stripped, to jump in the fountain. I’m feeling even wiser, when I haven’t spoken. Rules For Psychiatric Incarceration I like pressing a brown bottle, next to these swollen temples. There is wisdom's seat where forgiveness rests. In a place no one litters everyone’s like savages, perpetually arm in arm. Nitwits out of boxes, freed from love nests. When you’re younger, they’ll work you over. You’re worth your salt if you keep your head (II) When you’re older, it’s like a big deal an immediate rule to contract scurvy. Staying that way, there’s no reason for sex anymore. Where forests are dull compared to factories, the steel locked doors, chattering of the teeth. Teeth are the sole possession against a television’s hygiene. Depending on who hoodwinks. I will not wear outfits that they issued to me. I might convince them to hand over the prize the set of master keys. But in the meantime wish for forgiveness. Something the Blue Teenager Sold You previously published in Dream Noir Magazine Something the blue teenager sold you left you high and dry, priceless, alone with memories of evil meals and your handcrafted tattoo. A thing that amounts to ceaseless rain, by sleight of hand, the blue teenager sold you something: a cause for wonder, a good luck charm, as you loitered in the hall, pursued your own thunder, behind whitewashed walls. All the while, your mouth brays about a daily routine, scores long settled, matters finished, the best part of a tired disguise. You’ve said very little, since you think every area is the same as mine, the lush park expanse, the neon pizza sign. I gauge your walk, you march behind me, it’s a pacer’s gait, learned many years ago. Something the blue teenager sold you in an ever lovin’ silent night a music from breathing in sighs. Your wick still burns, your flame tells me, you wrote those books to feed the Machine. Merciless, you’re entombed, in a waking fate, at length you weep. He put a crease in your head, sold you all you ever knew, in the way of destiny, a pair of sticks crossed glowing on the exit door, an aggravation; what’s more, what the dial light says illumined and green shadowy light, last dialing of an unknown number you found on the wall. Why I Stay the Same previously published in Hair Trigger Magazine of Columbia College Chicago An opening to the head prefigures a right hand. Following up with a jab looking at open wounds. Start with a fatal blow, to take things further. Dawns’ light in the cell the answer to intrigue, to all known business. I’ve spent ink in oceans trying to explicate this. Since success rests on a hand and wrist and not much more. I won’t weep longer, but I’m sure I’m late meeting at the station. I fear the stationmaster more than I fear my sense of stasis. It galls me to think alcohol explains why I stay the same. You put it in brown jugs, it lessens tidal flowage guarantees better days. it keeps the upper hand. I spent much more time older man than younger , hanging onto a low hand. That’s why I moved in swarms when I decided to move at all. I’m sure of my status it’s my code of nature like a breeze in grass. Bio: Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), thebluenib.com, minerallit.com. Avalanches In Poetry Anthology@amazon.com. National Library Of Poetry Editor's Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.