2 new Poems by Michael Igoe : Think of It As Fire & Subdue

person using white disposable lighter

Think Of it as Fire

In an everyday season,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      I am the everready one                                                                                                                                                 to foster blank children.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Made out of spare parts:                                                                                                                         Venus as the little coach                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     who fashions them in mist.                                                                                                                                                      The sense of dread descends                                                                                                                                                       when they continue thriving.                        

Subdue                  

A rise insea level                                                                                                                                         provides the clue                                                                                                                              to what I missed.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          A routine discovery,                                                                                                                                    serving weightlessly                                                                                                                                   as due compensation.                                                                                                                                      For an angry era                                                                                                                                      spent in squalor                                                                                                                                      cutting new teeth.                                                                                                                                                 Badness lends meaning,                                                                                                                      to events an angel incurs.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Laughing, falling, failing,                                                                                                                                         in courageous retaliation.          

 Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Michael Igoe                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Poems from Anthologies & new poems from Michael Igoe

Blizzard, City, Cold, Freeze, Frost
The Stellar Marine

I'm having much trouble
weeding out streets unfit to walk.
I tread slowly through the snows
of a recent nor'easterner.
as the recent customer
of a bottle of milk, and a dime newspaper.
I see fit to change paths,
past master of the clutch
a recent jamboree of poses behind me.
In a city that boldly confronts the sea
I stop for the traffic's beat
love letters roast in searing flame
outside the radius of wind and shore
stretching to New Bedford.
There, nor'easterners, I guess,
cease in sumps.
I wake up with your presence on me.
I turn over in the starry wind.
To feel my hands, tongue, and feet hush.
They report through lifelines and sinew,
extremities guide them, 
to recesses and removes.
They chalk up casualties.
Drink in each other's frames,
bound in a spiral,
we see the gust tamed
find ourselves without a rancor.
Gusts across water and sky,
equal to the stellar marine.
We cater to friends, they share
the same downward spiral:
to swap proofs and secret messages.

Highly Visible

We live it out in an era
with ferris wheel tickets.
We stand under viaducts,
paused in our grim march
toward that other Mayday.
A hope continues
for the secret vial
full of evidence
we look hard for.
Every biblical figure,
smashed to smithereens
roams under arches.
They plant a warm horror
on a rebel girl sunbathing.

A Portrait of Ray

Seems like you touched someone,
right near the heart of the Hun.
Those guesses of yours,
as you entertained crowds;
in vogue, lucky, to entertain half price.
You tame them all to start, downtown;
hypnotized crowds, they all wonder
if they're flesheaters, just like you.
They kept a record: an electric image,
of your smiling shattered teeth
the death' head tattoo you got
one day before you shipped out.
You never look at it closely,
instead you collect tin foil wrappers
from under chrome bumpers
to stage your lavish midway spectacle.
Next time I saw you, same as before,
You had long since confessed to eating flesh
it was the color of the rouge on faces
of women who claimed to love you.
Your eyes, also red, both of us knowing,
the hand really is quicker than the eye.
We're so wary of the moves it takes
to heal scar tissue from wounds in the corridor.
And I rifle through the boxes you left
to slip further along the empty aisles.

Rage Between Equals

Do you remember
all what you said:
the electric guitar
is soon to replace
an automatic rifle.
Interlopers clinched
in the heat of battle,
they find out blindly
about greasy bullets.
Success as the fuse
to sites of extinction.
They saw everything
through rose glasses.
Only beleaguered
by the five senses.
The sound of a note
amplifies on strings
representing itself
as a whiz vibration.
It's faster than
a speeding bullet.

Think Of It As Fire

I'm past a barnyard,
that place of slaying.
I will greet there,
blanked children
who all too often
with eyes crossed
fashion phantoms
out of spare parts.
They live certainly
to thrive elsewhere.
A tiny venus as coach
working through mist.


Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Michael Igoe

Poems by Michael Igoe : “In Certain Climates” & “Elliptical”

In Certain Climates

Right over there                                                                                                                                                     there are infants                                                                                                                                               darkly fondled,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      roaring mothers                                                                                                                                          roll on their sides.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Trying to console,                                                                                                                                                         but seem sunless,                                                                                                                                drinking together                                                                                                                             balanced droughts                                                                                                                                   of dynamic violence.                                                                                                                            It’s a sped up version                                                                                                                                    of an empty landscape.         

Elliptical       

Rumors stymied                                                                                                                                                                        dreams of dying.                                                                                                                                                       Panic laid to rest,                                                                                                                                                                                                                     through mourning.                                                                                                                                                    Over barren fields                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            slight brown hands                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       grasp at their allies.                                                                                                                                           Only when unbound                                                                                                                                                    they sweat and suffer                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    stripped of vision                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              they agreed  to beg.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           They talk it over                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       at off brand meals.                                                                                                                                                 They joined the ranks,                                                                                                                                                                  of a blackened captain                                                                                                                     who believes tobacco,                                                                                                                                                is a cleansing penance.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       They go rent rooms                                                                                                                           they’re shared with                                                                                                                                                    former hairdressers   
retired safecrackers.            


 Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Michael Igoe                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

2 new poems by Michael Igoe :”Inborn” & “Funeral Lilies”

           

Inborn

Underneath a chassis,
a white glove touches
greasy stacks of boxes.
The bullets inside them
spill out on cold ground.
A file of sultry generals
assembles in a building.
In the shape of a Basilica.
Scarved girls
at work within
are busy washing
their china dishes.
To find themselves
not quite so lonely
when dishwashing.

 Funeral Lilies

Necessary arrangements
are taking up more time.
Following rigid orders ,
we pick those flowers that bloom in skeletons.
Straightening creases,
ones real or imagined.
We read the rumors,
in the gossip column
we put them all down
to a misunderstanding.
Thanks to St. Jude,
for favors granted.
He’s close to the kin,
who perish among us.
But ones assembled,
give him due respect.
It seemed odd,
to think it’s sad,
achieving a thrill.
Using only one word
that soothes our soul.
At a hot dog pit
south of 95th
we will arrive
at his funeral.
We meet brazen kings making no mistakes
about power wielded
A Kansas City woman
calls a broom a rocket.
To match things up
she took a chance
to stand in line
so she can shake
the mayor’s hand.
She sure hoped he’d die
when he stole the election.
They both sit in the grandstands,
between the one eyed vagabonds.

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Michael Igoe

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Michael Igoe

Image

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.