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Corey Mesler
Snippet Work
Just a small piece of me
sits out on the front lawn.
My neighbors ignore it.
A stranger selling revelation
almost steps on it.
This small piece is devoid
of intention or need.
It is the only piece I can afford
right now
to have out on the lawn.
End of October, 2001
The
porch is cold this morning
as I venture outside
to retrieve the worldsad news,
sidestepping the
jack-o-lanterns my children carved
last night when
we were all together, like a hymn.
Poetry
In the afternoon
there are
thirteen blackbirds
on the school fence.
The night is long though
and in the morning
the blackbirds are gone.
Taking Stock Christmas Eve, 2001
The pain in my groin
is like a
small tool
wielded with
imprecision.
The chest
obstruction
is my heart
expanding.
My lower back
is Time
digging with
a cheap spoon.
And then
there’s the fear,
the plain
life-fear, that
prevents me
from joining
you in your
revelry.
Wounds like
the wounds in the
belly of my
country.
This is just
where I am
at 46.
Earlier I was a
golden boy
with women
who stroked
my legs
as if I were
a courtesan.
Those days
are dead
and that’s
fine: their passing
is duly noted
like that
of half the
Beatles and
my father,
just lately.
Tomorrow
never knows,
as the wise
men said.
I open my
eyes this morning
and that’s a
plus.
It’s dark
like the inside of
a muscle but
it’s dark
for only a
heartbeat.
Then there is
light
and the music
from a distant
speaker. My
racketypackety
house is
alive and so am I.
I guess
that’s what I’m getting
at. I guess
that’s the crux,
the incondite
solemnization.
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Corey Mesler
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