The Iowa Source

My Blog

Description of my blog


Untagged  1 Aug 2017
rustin
DIARY by Rustin Larson Comment (0)

 

“This End Up” said the lettering

On the package.

What was inside?

A gorilla?

An assassin?

An apple pie?

Twenty apple pies?

The head of Jerry Lewis?

I left it alone.

It didn’t belong to me.


*

There was a year

In the distant past,

1969 or 1970,

When everyone

Looked like Richard

Brautigan.

I would buy American

Cheese for my sandwich

And Richard Brautigan

Would hand back

13 cents

In change.

What was that

All about

Anyway?


Untagged  1 Jul 2017
rustin
DAYDREAM by Rustin Larson Comment (0)

Fountaining lobelia: we hang a pair

on the porch to welcome summer and ward

off broken bones. Purple finches weave

a perfectly symmetrical nest. The male

perches on the guy wire and sings.

I dream the Rembrandt Mary cradling,

shepherd’s flute and the muffled lowing,

the infant’s cooing in the cattle-clogged

room, the birds' haunted singing, sun whirling

waters, trees sucking dreams from

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

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