Category: 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.                      

Socrates Said He Fled Sex

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                                                                                       

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Part of the Hill is Parched

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

   Manifest Destiny

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.      

 Figureheads 

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.               

 Embrasure 

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.

Guarded

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
sidestep

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
shimmer. 

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

                                                                                                                                           
                                                                                                                                             

Boundary Waters

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.       

Remittance Man

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 Light 

Last Frontier by Michael Igoe (Prose stories) Last Frontier