Michael Igoe

Michael Igoe, city boy, neurodiverse,Chicago now Boston.  Instructor at Boston University Center for Psych Rehab. Numerous works appear in journals and anthologies online and print. Recent: lastleaves.com, Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), alternateroute.org.  National Library of Poetry Editor’s Choice Award 1997.

Carson Beach                                                        

Crimson waves                                                                                                                                                                   are in a series                                                                                                                                                as premonition.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       To search for silence,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             we climb silent steps                                                                                                                         without earnest effort.                                                                                                                              We skip smooth stones,                                                                                                                                across an eastern water.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      We overhear neighbors                                                                                                                       telling us what century                                                                                                                                     they deserve to live in.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 In ones they can force,                                                                                                                                some kind of payback.                                                                                                                            Hoping to be concealed                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                in snowy embankments.                                                                                                                             

A Letter in Greasepaint                                                                    

After the deadline                                                                                                                                                diligently thinking                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            in a room of bones.                                                                                                                      Carrying out the orders                                                                                                                                    given here by phantoms.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   The embossed seals fixed                                                                                                                          on draughts of champagne                                                                                                                                    put the program in motion.                                                                                                                                 I sat in an ideal chair                                                                                                                                                  by the window frame                                                                                                                                             watching daytime tv.                                                                                                                                               In  the scattered scene                                                                                                                               a rank and file spouts                                                                                                                                                    a  myth of the regime.                                                                                                                                                                                  I continued to hear you                                                                                                                                     step off the subway car.                                                                                                                               You’re the same one                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  who liked speeches                                                                                                                                       about midrange agony                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

Penny Candy                                                                                                                       

Desire has its own will                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        through its harsh words.                                                                                                                                   Caught up in The Big Beat                                                                                                                                                              no one ever says too much                                                                                                                            about the absence of desire.                                                                                                                  I once wore an alcohol smile                                                                                                                        in ready embrace of red meat.                                                                                                                                              In secret versions of golgotha                                                                                                                   work from splintered fingers                                                                                                                          descending through the ages                                                                                                                                suited in immaculate armor.                                                                                                                                  Tobacco stains covered                                                                                                                                                            feeding  the same hunger                                                                                                                                         stretching from my neck.                                                                                                                                                                                         It's smoky on the high side                                                                                                                                           a wisp in cellophane blues                                                                                                              in gusts by the thousands.                                                                                                                                     They have until Monday                                                                                                                                                     then they must trick me.                                                                                                                                                              This Monday.                                                                                                                                                                we start again.

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