2 new poems from Michael Igoe

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Sold as Whisper

At that time I found                                                                                                                                                 I could never defeat                                                                                                                                                                                   whatever you joined.                                                                                                                                                                                           Becoming reckless,                                                                                                                                                         I treated the disease                                                                                                                                          with other diseases.                                                                                                                                                  When you fall down                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             keeping up the pace,                                                                                                                                         you are a conqueror;                                                                                                                                                    you seem sure footed                                                                                                                                                           like the braying mule.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        It's more than strange,                                                                                                                                                           that in a time of dying.                                                                                                                                                                     Mementos stay in places                                                                                                                                         meant for broken vessels.                                                                                                                                    But they’re easily brooked,                                                                                                                           in a room filled with vapor.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             As a delicate offer                                                                                                                               seeking your trust.      

Bix Beiderbecke Played Here

As the guy wires tighten                                                                                                                                             the assembled say plenty                                                                                                                                    about their easy way out.                                                                                                                                                                     En guard they sing a tenor                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               it rings like brushed armor.                                                                                                              Life as a thing ongoing                                                                                                                              seems a thing non stop,                                                                                                                              masking the symptoms                                                                                                                                   in desire’s flaccid arms.                                                                                                                                 Hearing the bone sound,                                                                                                                            you walked on the ramp                                                                                                                                                 on the side of a ballfield,                                                                                                                                 and saw blazing arclight.                                                                                                                  Full of the summer drink                                                                                                                                   in your fading housedress                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        smiling at an end of night.                                                                                                                        Though it’s only bestowed,                                                                                                                                            to show up in trick mirrors.                                                                                                                              Necessary lessons learned,                                                                                                                            buckshot lovers take over.                                                                                                                                    Opening tins of biscuit,                                                                                                                              cans of ale out of reach.                                                                                                                                    Both arms are curving,                                                                                                                                    in an awkward embrace                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

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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