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.
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