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.
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
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.