New Poetry from Michael Igoe

Mother’s Material

All things dwindle fast,                                                                                                                                                    on left handed Sundays.                                                                                                                                  But with new vistas                                                                                                                                                         they hit the heights                                                                                                                                   directly on course                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           quieted by leaves.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      More arduous                                                                                                                                                    the encounter                                                                                                                                           more charged                                                                                                                                                    is the silence.                                                                                                                                                                                                              She met with a king,                                                                                                                                    and brand iron rulers.                                                                                                                                 With almost no hints,                                                                                                                                                      without a suggestion.                                                                                                                                    There’s no lip service                                                                                                                             in freedom of speech,                                                                                                                                        you speak your piece.                                                                                                                                                            She made her plans                                                                                                                                        to fill up long lines                                                                                                                                     with stuff of illness.                                                                                                                                          World weary every day,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    dealing out pantomimes.      

 Bad Apples        
       
Getting stuck in the teeth                                                                                                                   before each performance.                                                                                                                              They will fight this war                                                                                                                                    during the Age of Mud.                                                                                                                       It makes you wretch                                                                                                                                            with eyes that shine.                                                                                                                                The machine won’t give                                                                                                                                    any more amorous signs.                                                                                                                                              As for rapture,                                                                                                                                             and as for pain                                                                                                                                                    as far as coma                                                                                                                                       and for moods.                                                                                                                                     Finally a revival,                                                                                                                                             by ice-like games,                                                                                                                                          from daft opinions.                                                                                                                            Recorded by the brain                                                                                                                             are the dying concerns                                                                                                                               about consuming meat.                                                                                                                                 We’re on our way                                                                                                                                             to the meek forest.                                                                                                                                       With an audience                                                                                                                                                    for your last book.                                                                                                                                The Rape of the Lock                                                                                                                               is the only one I need.      

Exhumation Games         

If the lotus                                                                                                                                          came to be                                                                                                                                                     I can’t tell                                                                                                                                                 even if I try.                                                                                                                                                  It finds its place                                                                                                                                                                 in fields of mud                                                                                                                                             in boot imprints.                                                                                                                                                     We figure out,                                                                                                                                                 a watery grave                                                                                                                                       someday withers.                                                                                                                                                             We’re called upon                                                                                                                                                                                                     to burn our houses                                                                                                                                      houses in surrender                                                                                                                                                 to the three degrees.                                                                                                                                                                                                Taking good stock                                                                                                                                                             of a rigged chance                                                                                                                                                                         refresh the mouth                                                                                                                                                with a taste of zinc.                                                                                                                                                             Lure the willing                                                                                                                                                                    those most able,                                                                                                                                                         easy to convince                                                                                                                                                                    to begin revving                                                                                                                                                  their twin engine.                                                                                                                                                                                                              Coaxing them back                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             into their lean years.                                                                                                                                                               These antics entitle them                                                                                                                                       to know if they’ll drown.              

Copper Harbor

As to any decisions                                                                                                                                        there’s no real hope.                                                                                                                                                        In a merciless world                                                                                                                                  revolving around us.                                                                                                                                         Working on this one                                                                                                                                   continuing to seethe                                                                                                                                        will satisfy pretense.                                                                                                                                                The beauty of the domes                                                                                                                                                   is in the beauty of words                                                                                                                                     chosen to describe them.                                                                                                                     Words lead to severance                                                                                                                                   leading on to governance.                                                                                                                                    Here are the cold hills,                                                                                                                                      serving as boundaries.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   On slow float lakes                                                                                                                                                         of wine and honey,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                the uninvited guest                                                                                                                                                           will reach the peak.                                                                                                                                                      Emerges seldom,                                                                                                                                             remains present

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.
                                                                                                                                  

May Poetry Showcase from Michael Igoe

Pitchman’s Breeze

Once the pitchman                                                                                                                                                          felt full awakened                                                                                                                                                                   he felt the dread                                                                                                                                           of resurrection                                                                                                                                                                     as a shepherd .                                                                                                                                                                 Milky blue lunches                                                                                                                                            at  bottoms of bags                                                                                                                                                          in curlicues of snow.                                                                                                                  Scraps of leather,                                                                                                                                       in tarnished vats                                                                                                                         seem to wind up                                                                                                                                     soles of his shoes.                                                                                                                          But plaguing him most                                                                                                                                      was he could have sold                                                                                                                                  though yes he did sell,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      electric barbed wire                                                                                                                                                                   by the dozen yards.                                                                                                                                               Without an inkling,                                                                                                                                       of whoever he was                                                                                                                                               looking forward,                                                                                                                                                      scouring the sky                                                                                                                                        blue eyes fading..                                                                                                                                                                                  The face of a man                                                                                                                                as a rhesus monkey;                                                                                                                                      so timid and curious                                                                                                                                                      he tugs on my sleeve.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         For my own protection                                                                                                                                                    to become walled off                                                                                                                                  I find myself walking                                                                                                                                                  across the sodden field.                                                                                                                                 More what I wanted,                                                                                                                         anything of promise.                                                                                                                                        Cleansing of the gut,                                                                                                                                           is a panicked appeal                                                                                                                                          for change of habitat                                                                                                                                        to one that’s weakest.                                                                                                                                      Likewise I am stripped,                                                                                                                                 to jump in the fountain.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                I’m feeling even wiser,                                                                                                                                              when I haven’t spoken.          

Rules For Psychiatric Incarceration

I like pressing a brown bottle,                                                                                                                                      next to these swollen temples.                                                                                                                                            There is wisdom's seat                                                                                                                          where forgiveness rests.                                                                                                                            In a place no one litters                                                                                                                                  everyone’s like savages,                                                                                                                                                   perpetually arm in arm.                                                                                                                         Nitwits out of boxes,                                                                                                                                  freed from love nests.                                                                                                                                   When you’re younger,                                                                                                                                           they’ll work you over.                                                                                                                                                    You’re worth your salt                                                                                                                                                          if you keep your head                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              (II)                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   When you’re older,                                                                                                                                                  it’s like a big deal                                                                                                                                                     an immediate rule                                                                                                                                        to contract scurvy.                                                                                                                                              Staying that way,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      there’s no reason                                                                                                                                   for sex anymore.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Where forests are dull                                                                                                                        compared to factories,                                                                                                                                                   the steel locked doors,                                                                                                                                                 chattering of the teeth.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Teeth are the sole possession                                                                                                                                 against a television’s hygiene.                                                                                                                     Depending on                                                                                                                                           who hoodwinks.                                                                                                                                        I will not wear outfits                                                                                                                                                     that they issued to me.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         I might convince them                                                                                                                                                              to hand over the prize                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  the set of master keys.                                                                                                                                                    But in the meantime                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  wish for forgiveness.    

Something the Blue Teenager Sold You      
previously published in Dream Noir Magazine

Something the blue teenager sold you
left you high and dry, priceless, alone
with memories of evil meals
and your handcrafted tattoo.
A thing that amounts to ceaseless rain,
by sleight of hand,
the blue teenager sold you something:
a cause for wonder, a good luck charm,
as you loitered in the hall,
pursued your own thunder,
behind whitewashed walls. All the while,
your mouth brays about a daily routine,
scores long settled, matters finished,
the best part of a tired disguise.
You’ve said very little, since you think
every area is the same as mine,
the lush park expanse, the neon pizza sign.
I gauge your walk, you march behind me,
it’s a pacer’s gait, learned many years ago.
Something the blue teenager sold you
in an ever lovin’ silent night
a music from breathing in sighs.
Your wick still burns,
your flame tells me,
you wrote those books
to feed the Machine.
Merciless, you’re entombed,
in a waking fate,
at length you weep.
He put a crease in your head,
sold you all you ever knew,
in the way of destiny,
a pair of sticks crossed
glowing on the exit door,
an aggravation; what’s more,
what the dial light says
illumined and green
shadowy light, last dialing
of an unknown number
you found on the wall.   

Why  I Stay the Same                     
previously published in Hair Trigger Magazine of Columbia College Chicago

An opening to the head                                                                                                                                                                             prefigures a right hand.                                                                                                                                                                    Following up with a jab                                                                                                                                                                         looking at open wounds.                                                                                                                                                                               Start with a fatal blow,                                                                                                                                                                                                to take things further.                                                                                                                                                                                                      Dawns’ light in the cell                                                                                                                                                                     the answer to intrigue,                                                                                                                                                                                   to all known business.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            I’ve spent ink in oceans                                                                                                                                                                                                         trying to explicate this.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Since success rests                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      on a hand and wrist                                                                                                                                                                                    and not much more.                                                                                                                                                                                            I won’t weep longer,                                                                                                                                                                                                                    but I’m sure I’m late                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 meeting at the station.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               I fear the stationmaster more                                                                                                                                                                                            than I fear my sense of stasis.                                                                                                                                                                                         It galls me to think                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  alcohol explains                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        why I stay the same.                                                                                                                                                                                                                 You put it in brown jugs,                                                                                                                                                                                             it lessens tidal flowage                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    guarantees better days.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    it keeps the upper hand.                                                                                                                                                                        I spent  much more time                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    older man than younger ,                                                                                                                                                                                       hanging onto a low hand.                                                                                                                                                                                                   That’s why I moved in swarms                                                                                                                                                                                           when I decided to move at all.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              I’m sure of my status                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             it’s my code of nature                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      like a breeze in grass.        


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.
                                                                                                                                             
                                                                               

2 new poems from Michael Igoe: Effigies, Places of Inanimate Glass

Effigies

I’m not wrong                                                                                                                                   for reinventing                                                                                                                                                         even reenacting.                                                                                                                                              Although a few words                                                                                                                                          are somehow maimed                                                                                                                                                                                                 bleeding in procession.                                                                                                                                                                                   Though I feign reverence                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       I find that I seek revenge,                                                                                                                                                      for making use of a word.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Sweeping gestures                                                                                                                                                                             that never permit                                                                                                                                                                                                                    form in real time,                                                                                                                                  norms in addition.                                                                                                                                                                       The words ghosted,                                                                                                                                                                solemn and curved

Places of Inanimate Glass

The window panes                                                                                                                                              always in shatters                                                                                                                                              from kinder tears.                                                                                                                                        In continued slips                                                                                                                                                                              one laid in wait                                                                                                                                    to witness echoes.                                                                                                                                Sovereign lotteries                                                                                                                                  absolves the player                                                                                                                                                                    of  the parallel self                                                                                                                                     Any number can win,                                                                                                                                              if lonely and stripped


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.

New poems from Michael Igoe

Re-published poems by Michael Igoe 

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Michael Igoe

New poems from Michael Igoe

Penny Candy

Desires come as a living will,                                                                                                                     but these words seem harsh.                                                                                                                    Caught up in the Big Beat,                                                                                                                              no one wants to say much                                                                                                                                                     about an absence of desire.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Once I wore alcohol smiles,                                                                                                                    ready to embrace red meat.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             In golgotha's secret versions                                                                                                           work from splintered fingers                                                                                                                           descend on through the ages                                                                                                                                         as immaculate suits of armor.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Stained by tobacco,                                                                                                                                                                 feeding the hungers                                                                                                                                     weaved in my neck.                                                                                                                      Smoke’s kept on the high side,                                                                                                                                     in its wisps of  cellophane blue.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Waiting for Monday,                                                                                                                                                                 when they trick me.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Monday, we start again.              

Curtain Call                                  

Meghan tries to tell me                                                                                                                        exactly what happened.                                                                                                                      Like in cartoon shows?                                                                                                                                        One with various jitters,                                                                                                                                the woes and afflictions,                                                                                                                                     those in neutral ascension                                                                                                                     The fight for menthol,                                                                                                                                   borrowing something                                                                                                                                          from translux glories.                                                                                                                                                    Necessary to the plan                                                                                                                                   for cities of the future.                                                                                                                   Tinkering seems important,                                                                                                                        when the stage grows quiet                                                                                                                                          On next Ladies Day                                                                                                                                         the end to suffering.            

More Often Vermilion         

She refused any leavetaking                                                                                                                                           from a room where she lives.                                                                                                                                                             Comings and goings,                                                                                                                              seem just like staying.                                                                                                                   Here’s space enough                                                                                                                                             for blindly climbing.                                                                                                                                         With  a good  alibi,                                                                                                                                            moving more agile.                                                                                                                                                 To find her victory,                                                                                                                                                with a missing item                                                                                                                                 night skies conceal.                                                                                                                                                The sky rumbled                                                                                                                                        with victory cries.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                In these cries disconsolate,                                                                                                                          that beseech contentments. *   

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.

New Poetry Showcase by Michael Igoe           

3 poems by Michael Igoe: “Bright Eyes” “Fun Lovers” “Bible Story”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

Re-published poems by Michael Igoe

white and blue petaledd flower

photo from Annie Spratt (unsplash)

published previously in detritusonline.blogspot.com

Jamaica Plain Massachusetts

Pull on the blue serge sashes;
bear witness to Jamaica Plain.
The darkest blue
much like motifs
in the magazines
you leaf through.
When you're done,
you must come in
Watch the sugar cubes
melt where flies settle.
Spying through vessels,
or an unlocked window;
trying them on for size.
You might want to recal
those Hell's Kitchen visits.
When genes sang in series,
from that psychotic candy.
Another time it was fed
to your downtown flock.
Take a look friend!
How we've grown!
Yes, we've grown,
and now's the time,
to make a descent
from our branches.

II.
I know how to tell time,
sometimes I tell the truth.
But this time-
I see flowers bloom
deep in the skeleton.

III.
Pull on the blue serge sashes;
bear witness to Jamaica Plain.
The darkest blue,
much like motifs
in the magazines
you leaf through.

Allure of the Novice

Rain spears in a spiral
with hammer and tongs
a condensed chemistry
lullabies filling the air
The coy workaday chuckles
from the slow motion queen.
She chose pared fruit
swollen by first light.


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.

New Poetry Showcase by Michael Igoe

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Michael Igoe

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