2 new poems by Michael Igoe

           

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.

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.

photo by Teleflora

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

2 Poems False Prophet & Violet Contact by Michael Igoe

False Prophet
His reign comes to power,
when he parts from a duo.
He’s seen as handsome,
in the shelter of eaves,
shriveled in the nooks.
His lonesome patron,
working in a gallery
adheres to bold lies
in a forest of logic.
In the passage,
turnstiles click
with a thin kiss
from detentions.
He wears his best shirts
plastered with bluebirds
prizes from the auction.
He’s sure to adore them.

Violet Contact
It seems at Dawn
they are bringing
jars of grenadine.
They are finding
frightened sources
ensuring the fair trade
of a downtown widow.
I might dine
on old bones
while I sleep.
Old bones arranged
by a similar gesture.
I’ll be just as fat
as bank teller lies.
These exact words
come from inmates
as well as sweathogs.
Two bits buys the scenes
before a captive audience. Next to suburbs,
of a shining hut
belief says goodbye.

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.comminerallit.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.

Featured photo by Chantal & Ole on Unsplash.com

Poetry: A Portrait of Ray by Michael Igoe in Avalanches in Poetry: Writings & Art Inspired by Leonard Cohen

 

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.

 

Michael Igoe is a great poet from Boston.

His website is https://poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com/

You can find him on twitter: @MichaelIgoe5