week of May 5 - 11, 2003
Corey Mesler and Shelly Reed
BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
click. here .for. submission .guidelines
I have published prose and/or poetry in Yellow Silk, Pindeldyboz, Mars Hill Review, Pikeville Review, Center, Small Press Review, Jabberwock Review, Rattle, Orchid, Quick Fiction, Timber Creek Review, Green Egg, Poetry Motel, Raintown Review, Potomac Review, Poetry Super Highway, Big Muddy, Slant, Wilmington Blues, Drought, Rockhurst Review, Wavelength, Lilliput Review, Pearl, Aurorean, Lucid Moon, Heeltap, Sunny Outside, Fish Drum, Into the Teeth of the Wind, Mid-American Poetry Review, Independence Boulevard, Midday Moon, Turnrow, Now Here Nowhere, Dust, Cherotic Revolutionary, Cotyledon, Buckle &, Iodine, Snakeskin (England), Flashpoint, Minas Tirith Evening Star, Drexel Online, Freewheelin (England), Pitchfork, Anthology, Poet Lore, Spillway, The Pegasus Review, Reverb, Kimera, Thema, Kumquat Meringue, Lonzies Fried Chicken, Both Sides Now, Electric Acorn (Dublin), Razor Wire, Gin Bender, Blue Unicorn, Black Dirt, The Spirit that Moves Us, Wind, Red Rock Review, Art Times, Concrete Wolf, Memphis Magazine, Rhino, Visions International, others. I have a chapbook of poems, Piecework, from the Wing and a Wheel Press. I have work in the anthologies Full Court: A Literary Anthology of Basketball (Breakaway Books), Pocket Parenting Poetry Guide (Pudding Press), Intimate Kisses: The Poetry of Sexual Pleasure (New World Press) and Smashing Icons (Curious Rooms). I recently won the Moonfire Poetry Chapbook Competition and my chapbook will be published by Still Waters Press in 2003.
One of my short stories was chosen for the 2002 edition of New Stories from the South: The Years Best, edited by Shannon Ravenel.
My novel-in-dialogue, Talk, was published by Livingston Press in 2002. Raves from Lee Smith, Robert Olen Butler, Steve Stern, Debra Spark, Suzanne Kingsbury, Frederick Barthelme and John Grisham.
I've been a book reviewer (for The Commercial Appeal, BookPage, The Memphis Flyer, Brightleaf), fiction editor (for Ion Books/raccoon), university press sales rep, grant committee judge (for The Oregon Arts Council), father and son. With my wife I own Burkes Book Store, one of the countrys oldest (1875) and best independent bookstores.
The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Corey Mesler and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.
She had a boyfriend, thats the first thing.
Yet, afternoons, when it could be
worked out, she visited my rooms and
undressed. She had a body like
a cheerleaders, strong of hip and thigh.
And she would jazz me with her
electric maw, time and time again.
I came in her mouth, those fluid
afternoons, too numerous to name,
while Van Morrison doodled away on the
stereo. But, that was all she wanted,
she wanted to suck me. Once, in a moment
of enthusiasm, I tried to enter her
elsewhere. She looked at me the way
Cleopatra looked at the victims of her asp.
She seemed almost puzzled. She had
a boyfriend, friends. I was strictly blowjob.
Full Frontal Irony
Ive always had a smart mouth
for someone not too bright.
In school it occasionally saved me
from the bullies. Here it
gets me into hot water, when I want,
occasionally to, you know, haunt you.
The blood on the sink
is not mine.
The face in the mirror
is strange to me. It smiles
when I grimace.
I wake to terrible change.
1954 Young Continued
There are floors/that want to digest
their furniture into/flowers and trees.
In our house, on our young street,
under the doting arms of Yggdrasil,
it is sometimes cold in winter
and warm in summer. It is an old
house on a young street; its walls
like dream-walls. But, still,
huddled in here, with the tv glowing
and music burbling from some-
where or other, and the laughter
of our small daughter tingling
along the rafters, it is Haven.
Fly circles three times and settles
on the rug over the antediluvian
floor furnace. Someone told me
this is how a dog finds its sitio,
its exact right place. And the
stars overhead whirl in tarantism,
just as they have done for centuries,
shedding flakes of light down
on our old house on our young street,
where we continue to live a life
even gods envy and even animals bless.
Shelly Reed lives, works, writes and plays in Norwalk, Iowa, USA. For her, creativity is a drug she cannot live in absence of.
The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Shelly Reed and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.
need relief from chapped hands?
try my hips on for size.
reusable, inflatable woman seeks mark rothko-type.
must tolerate occasional role play-
no handcuffs, will consider silk ribbons.
guaranteed to give your hands an orgasm
and make your mother jealous.
not for the timid of heart
nor the stapled of stomach.
final poem holds a gene pool of tongue
and the secret twenty-seventh
letter of the alphabet in soup
floating spices and this week's lotto #'s.
An Eclipse During Whiskey
The mirror opens its mouth,
a paean in D minor tongues
the night awake.
Dolls with missing eyes
check their coifs, smooth
faded skirts with fingers
peeling porcelain flesh.
The train begins its
figure-eight journey over
imaginary track and a pile
of severed Barbie legs.
Tears fall from the mannequins eyes;
a monk kneels on his wooden leg
in blood pooling at the man-made
womans sandaled feet.
Rain begins; a centipede hastens.
wearing false eyelashes
and patent leather boots.
bolts of wedding gown fabric
spread over cornfields
brilliant as your glass eye
in a wince of moon
wish you could
in this gown of snow