The Works of Michael Shannon 

Michael has a B.A. in writing and works as a technical writer. Michael's work has been accepted by Enigma, Steam Ticket, Down in the Dirt, The Oak, AntiMuse, Barfing Frog Press, The American Drivel Review, Transcendental Visions, Poetry Motel, The Lampshade, Cherry Bleeds , Zygote in my Coffee, Dispatch, Straylight, Lalitamba, The Cherry Blossom Review, SubtleTea, Backwards City Review, Wisconsin Review, Midway Journal, and The Foliate Oak.


All Poems © Michael Shannon


Corners

Orphaned,
a maze of jutting bones,

tight teeth packed
with angst, so unwilling,
too staunch.

Incorrigible, smiling at
the guise, eyes closed,
waiting.

The sun of our winter.
One day: our imperfect angel.

Forced to rear the onus
of truths,
unfurled, no longer hidden
in the depths of
irresponsibility.

Reprehensibility haunts.
Echoes, come back,
again, etc.

The big forever,
together, knowing the solace
of always

being broken
and
alone.


Her Little World

She’s coloring the world with
pastel pencils,
a plastic microscope to her eyes,
scrutinizing her tiny flaws on canvas.


Analyzing lines
that connect oceans
and foreign lands she can’t pronounce—
jumbled straits and archipelagos
lost in rumpled blue waves
under the rotund lemonade-colored sun.


It’s her real home,
her noiseless land,
unfurled under her mattress—
a place she goes when tears abound her eyes. 


She constructs brown lumps of mountains
with soaring black slashes of birds
splayed in the trite-azure sky—
a bumpy knoll, a thicketed valley, an icy fjord,
anywhere where her friends
can come to abscond.


And maybe one day
she’ll live in that spot:
near the precipice,
near the sky,
distended with babies inside her,
a careless future
hidden in the mist of the ocean,
near the orthographically perfect legend,
and near the tears that fall from her eyes.



more beginnings


as she drove away
that summer night,


drunk,

pledging to get
her revenge,


I held back
my tears,


my fears—


allowing myself
to embrace the
the devastation


of never
seeing her again,


I went to sleep,
content
with the emptiness


of my sprawling,
new world.