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.
We may have known the familiar erasures. Of frog carcasses rendered at sport. We've been found, knee deep in envy witlessly imagined for crying out loud. It’s the loss of power that oddly overcomes in a distant homeland. He had sought the power, speaking from one cheek thought himself thwarted.
Stretch of Imagination
Our pecan inlaid table on the parquet squares behind a derelict piano. Competing in infancy in a manner of stages. Forgiving the mess about they brought the dime store items same as in the Bible, purloined on purpose completely breaking in the backyard mud. They dug with hidden claws at most all their Gethsemani. Yes, I walk gently, but in giant strides gifted by grinning through every age. A song you hear from the throat, one not of the spirit but the flesh. A phone forever rings I’m sure I waste water when I sweep a basin.
2 new poems by Michael Igoe (October 2022)New poems from Michael Igoe
As far as any decision goes, needs are easily abandoned. It’s hard work seething, and lack of pretense brings little satisfaction. Beauties of the valley capped by their dome cries out for severance from every governance. In the cold hills of Adam it’s thought to be the end. No more showboats carrying rank wine adrift on high seas. It’s someone else, causing agitation. makes life appear as lifelike as NOW. They’ll emerge on all fronts spend lonely time searching. They wait among the rushes on an oilcloth playing cards. The high card, Ace of Spades, their alignment in representing death’s dominion. After the levels of the sun has reached a day’s peak they have finished singing. Then taking long draughts from their rusty scuppers
As opulence enters, the eyes open wide. It makes me happiest, when opulence leaves. I keep talking about
the sparrows flocked close to the Pavilion. They set a course, fiercely objecting to the little things. In resort to slander following the rules that they can't deny. They're observed,
only feeling fiery with flexed wings.
Agreeing on one thing, they like it much better flying over tank towns.
Here, the windows bolted right before every evening. They kayo all the words considered as breathing.
Managing to remain on top, to follow the bouncing ball. keep my mouth shut, when shaking hands, with leaders of men. It gets me nowhere, with a mottled face that lacks the words to end an encounter. Plans in the making, lined up one by one. In the days that follow, a big strong line reaps the fruits of our labors.
There’s entrance to this chamber, one that’s more tiny than dusty. The routine inhabitants, some who are insistent. Their guarantee is scripted. through a break in the skin. They form like a crystal but of your own making. It’s in a swirling dedication, to a faraway press of desire. But there is never room for things uninterrupted.
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.
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,
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
A Super Deluxe Poetry Showcase for Michael Igoe (early-mid 2021)2 poems from Michael Igoe – September 2022Last Frontier by Michael Igoe (Prose stories) Last Frontier
Beyond the Pale no one goes, within or without. Here it's important in sleep consistent without presence of a towering idol. The trestles of viaducts, shelter for working men. Rock salt covers calloused hands. As for myself, I require, the birth of every desire. Palm print saying I need to wrestle with all the trees.
He plants the rough kiss on the left of her cheek. It brings to mind a former motive and base moves. She gauges intentions out of a pale archway, by her sleight of hand. It's understood why he continues. In the arched smile, warming a window. It’s a great day in the morning. Neither knew she was equal, to expanding sets of mere explosion. Of good luck aware, the washstand brings. Where with mascara her eyes are opened.
A Super Deluxe Poetry Showcase for Michael Igoe (early-mid 2021)Poetry by Michael Igoe: Chaser & In Garnet LightLast Frontier by Michael Igoe (Prose stories) Last Frontier