The Iowa Source

My Blog

Description of my blog

Untagged  3 Apr 2017
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


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
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
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.

Untagged  2 Jan 2017
Roach Motel by Rustin Larson Comment (0)


I must do this to survive, Cardinal.

No breathing allowed, Mr. Bee.

I tripped on the stairs made of you, Maple.

Es muy Piso Mojado, Mr. Snail.

I will take my sleepwalk, Cloud.

The world is the mirror

and the world is purified.

Throw your hands in the air

and run. We'll be eatin'

what's on the shelf, Anne.

The puppy wants to jump

into the redwoods. The lamp

holds up the wine of

Untagged  26 Dec 2016
Revision for New Year's Eve by Rustin Larson Comment (0)

My Father Didn’t Dance With Sylvia Plath


New Year’s Eve, curled in the swiveling chair
in my parent’s TV room, “Garfield’s 9 Lives” cracking up
Katie, my five-year-old, and Ariel in my hands
as my father stalks from the left and growls

within his cavern of flu “are you reading
one of your competitors?” the proposition so weird
I spill cola on page 41, “The Moon and the Yew

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