Famous My father pointed toward the ravines where he was born. A tough baby with a torch and lumber he sees fit to fill each and every ravine . We come from a place without reflection on the river. It’s famous for flies in a dead end fevers faded town belts out few tunes we can hear Lullabies waft in breezes they’re pleased to let me know exactly where I am. On a pristine river where fame swells in smaller portions.
Casualty I was not happy, born in a manger as born hatemonger. I can’t pay attention to another message. It will only show up in a different phrase. Frowns of a lazy sister, gathered on the ceiling. They take deep breaths, preserved by turpentine.
Rehashed We lack the poise of old movie stars in the brass frames. Look at the histories, of random encounter, in the subway tunnels. Both these things, stars and tunnels, willingly become warm and electric. They lose their place in our secret orchard. A dire warning comes from the hoarse throat, in a coat of candle wax. Since we lost spare parts on the side of the tracks.
Michael Igoe, city boy, neurodiverse, Chicago now Boston, numerous works appear in journals online and in print. Recent: anserjournal.org, musicalprimate.com, minerallit.com. Anthologies: Avalanches In Poetry, The Poets Of 2020, Fevers Of The Mind Press available at Amazon. National Library of Poetry Editor's Choice Award 1997. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com, Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.
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