by Michael Igoe
Something the blue teenager sold you
left you high and dry, priceless, alone
with memories of evil meals
and your handcrafted tattoo.
A thing that amounts to ceaseless rain,
by sleight of hand,
the blue teenager sold you something:
a cause for wonder, a good luck charm,
as you loitered in the hall,
pursued your own thunder,
behind whitewashed walls.All the while,
your mouth brays about a daily routine,
scores long settled,matters finished,
the best part of a tired disguise.
You’ve said very little, since you think
every area is the same as mine,
the lush park expanse,the neon pizza sign.
I gauge your walk,you march behind me,
it’s a pacer’s gait, learned many years ago.
Something the blue teenager sold you
in an everlovin’ silent night
a music from breathing in sighs.
Your wick still burns,
your flame tells me,
you wrote those books
to feed the Machine.
Merciless,you’re entombed,
in a waking fate,
at length you weep.
He put a crease in your head,
sold you all you ever knew,
in the way of destiny,
a pair of sticks crossed
glowing on the exit door,
an aggravation;what’s more,
what the diallight says
illumined and green
shadowy light, last dialing
of an unknown number
you found on the wall.
Michael Igoe is a Chicago native who now resides in Boston, NY — recently published in the Pilgrim Quarterly 1/19 Spare Change, including being published in Cabinet of Heed in July. Michael has made TV appearances with CCTV and is a part of the Black Seed Writer’s Group (Boston). He won the National Library of Poetry Editor’s Choice Award in 1997 for urban realism and surrealism, and he likes the night.
Dream Noir 