The Iowa Source

My Blog

Description of my blog


Untagged  1 Jun 2017
rustin
Bells by Rustin Larson Comment (0)

Someday you’ll forget, he thanked God. Newspaper

where the words for the opportunity, a choice,

came from having my eyes opened by bells.

The dog will hand blitzkrieg, flying chairs;

the mouse made its rapid advance through chamber pots.

The bell became paramount. Three bullet holes

and the cat, the senior staff in the teeth,

will go crashing Camp Commandant. A coil of

will, the gumball,

Untagged  1 May 2017
rustin
BEFORE WORK by Rustin Larson Comment (0)

6:35 a.m. Not suffering. The quietest time

Of morning. I can hear a train rumbling

Miles away. A “Charles Pretzels” can serves

As a waste basket. The rodent digs

Litter under its spinning wheel. My senses say

Attack another expectation. Run by another

Temporary solution. I think I’ll make oatmeal.

I haven’t heard a thing happen yet.


The magnifying glass sleeps with the geode.

Maybe I

Untagged  3 Apr 2017
rustin
THE SINGING by Rustin Larson Comment (0)

Even after a full day

of housekeeping

at Johnny and Kaye's

near the airport, stripping

the sheets

of Robert Goulet

and other famous

passersthrough,

she would stand at home

at the sink with her bucket

of potatoes, and peel

and slice

as the lard melted

in the skillet. 

She would hum

like Loretta Lynn,

whistle a song

like a sparrow striped

as the vast night

wheeled out of the east

and made plans

vined into the

Untagged  1 Mar 2017
rustin
Homeless Man Living in an Abandoned Library by Rustin Larson Comment (0)

The books are all mine now.  It's too bad about the electricity, because it gets dark in here at night.  There's no climate control, so it can be pretty brisk in winter.  The books have fared well.  The rodents have done minimal damage, but strangely have chewed through the collection of Emerson which was kept on the bottom shelf of that section for some reason.  There are thousands of volumes in

Untagged  1 Feb 2017
rustin
The Philosopher Savant Meditates by Rustin Larson Comment (0)

Your mind goes on around you,

practicing piano in the apartment below

or standing in the cathedral of time,

meditating its stained-glass window,

its mandala of red and blue,

frankincense twisting to deletion.

Wind gushes against the blinds.

You listen not for completion

nor what’s forward, nor behind.


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