May Poetry Showcase from Michael Igoe

Pitchman’s Breeze

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.
                                                                                                                                             
                                                                               

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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