2 new poems by Michael Igoe (October 2022)


You can't always tell                                                                                                                                                 where the future lies.                                                                                                                           We’re in streets                                                                                                                                        paved by alibis.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        With a witless grace                                                                                                                                          you come to realize,                                                                                                                                                     a future will reflect                                                                                                                                  sharp recall of past.                                                                                                                                   In chained trace,                                                                                                                                          among buildings                                                                                                                                                  of glass and steel,                                                                                                                                     eagerly expecting                                                                                                                                         a howling eureka.                                                                                                                          The sound sustains                                                                                                                                                  in the current light.                                                                                                                                           In growing gaunt,                                                                                                                           cheekbones break,                                                                                                                                                        the hairline silvers.                                                                                                                              Kowtowing at baseline                                                                                                                                        claiming a performance                                                                                                                             defiant at an end of day.                                                                                                                                                                                 But there’s an urge to run                                                                                                                                                      watching what’s awkward.                                                                                                                                   And then you’ll run                                                                                                                                with a hum electric                                                                                                                                                                               Keeping in mind,  
you can't

Dispatch From St. Louis
All of a sudden,                                                                                                                                     it dawned on me,                                                                                                                                         to break the silence.                                                                                                                                               Here’s where rarely                                                                                                                                            we endure a freeze.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Ice is going to melt,                                                                                                                                                            on your zany photo.                                                                                                                             The one you taped up,                                                                                                                                                  on back of your stove.                                                                                                                                                  It’s not allowed here,                                                                                                                                     even if it’s piecemeal.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Commodes furnished,                                                                                                                                                 with their steel mirror.                                                                                                                                                        My eyes grew narrow                                                                                                                         from high beam lights.                                                                                                                                 After I took to watching    
the Mississippi

A Super Deluxe Poetry Showcase for Michael Igoe (early-mid 2021)

2 poems from Michael Igoe – September 2022 

Last Frontier by Michael Igoe (Prose stories) Last Frontier


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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