See you used to scratch me
That first one showed the lines
First contact, first strike
Caught off guard by your words and actions
And how they both affect me physically and mentally
The next time you went for blood
The blood permeated the layers of the subcutaneous and cutaneous
Oxidized and oozed
You knew how go take things up a notch
You became a mosquito that was drunk off blood
Wanted to be the life of the party
Knowing the very thing you were doing was killing you inside too
But you still continued
You finally scratched me hard that you went deep
The scars from before reopened as the pain and suffering
Became your fountain of youth
But for me it was getting old
To me, it was to time to scratch em back
And let me feel the rage
Of doing what you’ve done to me
All these years
And I just sat there and let you do it
I look at the mental scars I have left
As the memories of where I was
And how far I came
And I’m glad to see those marks
Are fading away
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.
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.
Michael igoe, city boy, neurodiverse, Chicago now Boston.Numerous works appear in journals online and in print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), flyovercountryliterarymagazine.com, linktre.e/derailleurpress. Anthologies:The Poets of 2020, Avalanches In Poetry(Fevers of the Mind Press).National Library of Poetry Editor’s Choice Award 1997, Feather Pen Blog Best Poem of 2020. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.
If blues could've been whitewashed with words..
I would've turned over extra breaths on years
to wipe clean the furrows that sit near my eyes
Uncrated the ocean that sits storming in my throat & salvaged vigor from calm piers
Yet....I suffer & let silence write my depths
Bossa Nova when
The forsythia and
Weeping cherry were
Outside the living room
Round – a blur of cream and blue
On the hardwood floor.
You’ve always been a better dancer than me.
I’m a petal in your
A blossom for your song.