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.
I wish I’d filled the car with gas I wish I’d had a piss I wish I’d grabbed some coffee at a place that was well lit I’m rolling through the swamplands And there all these signs for Trump I thank the lord my little girl’s Too young to know what’s up I sure don’t want no trouble Or bad shit to go down So I’m following the speed limits Through these small Florida towns
I’ve got miles left to go But I keep my speed in check I’m coming to complete stops When I make a right on red My plates say New York State You can see them from miles off I cross my fingers and say a prayer Every time I pass a cop I know they think I’m just Some sort of Northern hippie clown So I’m following the speed limits Through these small Florida towns
Bugs splat my windshield And I check my mirror often I blast Tom Petty so they know We’ve got one thing in common I wish I could hit the gas I wish I could put some space Leave behind these gun shows And be miles from this place I’m not sure what these people want But it ain’t having me around So I’m following the speed limit Through these small Florida towns
Yes, I’m following the speed limit Through these small Florida towns
The World’s Most Profitable Prison
In the world’s most profitable prison The men have lost their souls But they’ve keep their arms and legs They’ve kept their backs and bones And they still have all their muscles And they’re held together by skin And they live the length of their lives In the world’s most profitable prison
In the world’s most profitable prison The men are guarded by guns And they work from dusk till dark As they move to beat of a slave drum Their food is mixed with sawdust And they’re always razor thin And there’s never an empty prison cell In the world’s most profitable prison
The full moon becomes our religion Watch the fold in the clouds, that is us And if they shall search for us Amongst our secret headquarters Cuddled together sharing Egg Biryani What are those stars, trapped behind obese trees?
The wind blows at our tent, our lockdown Trying to infiltrate our codes To steal away our dance And leave our footprints to be discovered by the gods. The river wants us too – It sways in a vulgar ballet Then dies off against the dam.
Your scarf and dress left in a ruinous insult in the mud Left to be panicky, dizzy, separated, and severed alone – In the grass. How can I relocate our flames? To dwell in the hum of purring Collect our wings from the cheap magician And terminate the spell.
A grandiose full moon smothers With its clouds Even after promising heaven behind the dark curtains – That was us.
Every morning at 9:33 a.m. ‘Til the world shall end In a dazzle, In old-fashioned explosions in black & white When miracles would often happen But billions would still expire.
The alarm is now set for an extra 3 minutes of sleep Quickly, dreaming in a panic state When all your fears transform into Gangland conspiracies planning your public stabbing.
I feel high, so I pray I feel depressed, so I stay Locked in trails from living rooms to the kitchen – To the bedroom, then to the bath. You can hear the streets spit sounds of chaos – Into your ears Years of letters fall from the skies – unopened Full of knowledge and thirst Full of threads from the brain to the hearse.
Waves of fertile thought The fog is still displaying this mafia Conscious disillusionment Broken glass cuts apart – Already wounded mirages Rainbows that lay bandaged and scarred In a Jekyll and Hyde mentality Towards the sunlight’s heat and comfort And then the storm hisses We enter the rain’s biting lashings.
Every morning You have to dig out With the claws of the banshee Hope that your bite hasn’t a flavor. Shed away all the flaky ashes of colour Carve away my meat and leave me as a machine. A robust smoke leaving the drain.
A blind liquid fades into your skin Everyone pressures you, Every bang in the wind haunts you Every vengeful deity resembles you In its shout and in its silence Every morning you answer absent When you try to idolize perfection.