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



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.


Poetry/Songs inspired by Leonard Cohen from Benjamin Adair Murphy

Small Florida Towns

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

Full Moon Over Secret Headquarters by David L O’Nan (poetry & writings)

A Full Moon Over our Secret Headquarters

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.

Photo by Kenrick Mills (unsplash)

Every Morning at 9:33 A.M. by David L O’Nan (poetry & writings)

Every Morning at 9:33 A.M.

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.

photo by Casey Horner