Michael Igoe, city boy, neurodiverse, Chicago now Boston. Numerous works appear in journals online and in print.

Recent: sledgehammerlit.com, k’inliteraryjournal.com, featherpenblog.com.

Anthologies: The Poets of 2020, Avalanches in Poetry(Fevers of the Mind Press)@amazon.com. National Library of Poetry Editors Choice Award 1997.

Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. Urban Realism, Surrealism.( I like the night.)

Finding A Dilated Fist                                                                         

A still object waits                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      to flare and sputter.                                                                                                                                                                                  Even as an object                                                                                                                                                 will tend to dilate.                                                                                                                                                                                                            To see it as a ghost                                                                                                                                                                                                         of drinks gone cold                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            by force you borrow                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    another pair of eyes.                                                                                                                                                                               Finding the accord                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  between two islands                                                                                                                           
that forks in waters.                                                                                                                                                                                   A jackpot gambled                                                                                                                                                                                                          aware of severance                                                                                                                                                                               in  simple encounter.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Its dread possession                                                                                                                                               of a keener eyesight                                                                                                                                                        allows for lining up                                                                                                                                            an object at gunpoint.                                                                                                                                        In compelled openings,                                                                                                                                                                  of all of the ten fingers.                                                                                                                                        Both palms then will rest                                                                                                                                                                                                                                on the back of a victim.                

Thanks For Your Time                                                                              

I am awakened                                                                                                                                                                      to a little blue hell.                                                                                                                                     There admonished,                                                                                                                                                   by those attempting                                                                                                                               
to own me completely.                                                                                                                                                                              To scratch an itch,                                                                                                                                         soon disenchanted,                                                                                                                                                with scarred veterans                                                                                                                          
raptured by comic war.                                                                                                                        
They drink sloth wines                                                                                                                                
from battered canteens.                                                                                                                
Concealed under floorboards                                                                                                                      
they remain undiscovered.                                                                                                                                      In terror of May Day,                                                                                                                                                         a raft of rabid sugars                                                                                                                          
course in their veins.                                                                                                                                                  Blinding light                                                                                                                                                           from headlights                                                                                                                                                       the sole reflection                                                                                                                                                           of immaculate features.
In transmission,                                                                                                                                               
it grows fainter.  

No Mans Land

You make use of me                                                                                                                                    even more than bold.                                                                                                                               Knowing next to nothing,                                                                                                                                the rainy look in the eye.                                                                                                                              Adding it up,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                as subtraction                                                                                                                                            
all those things                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                I feel you owe me.                                                                                                                                     
Why measure mouths                                                                                                                                    opened when damned.                                                                                                                                                 It’s one of those numbers,                                                                                                                                              the prize of your creations.                                                                                                                                      In words of nervous mirth,                                                                                                                               familiar as a late afternoon.