A Prose Story by Michael Igoe “Venetian Blind”

Venetian Blind

Listen to me closely. Something is going to happen. Soon, something will happen to me.                                                                                                                          I can’t say exactly what for sure. It’s an old story you’d recognize immediately. Strange to think, it has no end or beginning, its details are practically forced on memory. Etched. They’re related to legal matters.                                                                                                                                                   At intervals, I visit memory in many clusters. Without apparent reason. At times I do this to avoid arguments...Or in the midst of one. In the presence of a constant anomie. It overtakes me.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          But as far as I’m concerned, these are incidents best forgotten. Relegated to a junk heap. Leave them well enough alone. Caught up in the sequence of events, I can’t help but wonder if they’ll ever mean anything to anyone. I’ve been called a pissant, taking pains with everything to the point of extreme annoyance. Maybe that’s the nature of my recollection. Just maybe.                              
Given the nature of confinement, recollection is the window on lifetimes. And windows often serve well as makeshift mirrors.                                                                                                  Woe is me. When a sad song plays, I think about my brazen approach to some things. Things that gratify the senses, the belly, the eyes, or sexual heat.. In other things, I'm not so brazen. Like warm relations, tenderness, accepting praise and giving. In these things I am reluctant.                                       
What preceded the Now often bores me.  Don’t imagine what comes after won’t be more of the same.                                                                                                                                                                             In these hazy words there’s meaning-but it’s almost impossible to detect. Involving others, of course, but more of me. For what that’s worth.                                                                                                            Are you still listening? I can’t be sure. It might be your time to listen. As long as you’re here, might as well. If there was something  more important, you’d be occupied. You wouldn’t be here in the first place.

 2 poems from Michael Igoe: “Intermittent” & “Cast in Another Life” 

New poems from Michael Igoe

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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