Friday, 5 September 2025

Nine Poems by Rustin Larson

 






Waves Crash Over the Bow of the Piano

The panther stares at my black stocking feet

For a moment, then saunters into the library,

Curls up to sleep in my reading

Chair. My high school English teacher

Said I needed an angel. The panther

Glowers out the window. It sustains his

Spiritual health. It keeps

The phantoms

Distracted and all

The diamonds hidden.

The panther

Mews like a kitten. I sip

My London Fog tea. The violins

Fly like seagulls,

Then crash

Into each other as though

They were blind. There are splinters

Everywhere.

We are exploring

Music. All is fair

In the enclosure

For polar bears. The panther

Keeps asking the same questions. I show

Him the window. The ink

Dries like licorice

Worms. The trumpets open huge iron

Doors for the emperor.




Cross-country

One billboard displayed a girl in a leopard

Bikini. She was hugging a giant

Roast beef sandwich. She was smiling,

Looking at the highway.

The highway looked endless,

Bent and danced in the watery

Mirage the sun made of the flat country.

Just as Darwin observed the beaks

Of Galapagos finches, the hitchhiker

Liked the way trees moved

In the wind, near the cloverleaf

On the freeway, at the edge of town.

He knew the Lord Jesus Christ

Was incarnate on this planet today.

Jesus made himself known: great

Events: floods, fires, earthquakes.

He was getting people ready for

A new life in heaven. The weather

Changed, and a loud crack

Of thunder rang out, and the hitchhiker

Cried, “It’s him! It’s him!” He looked

At the slowly parting clouds,

Hoped that if there was any

Correlation with nature, the upcoming

Sunshine would bring not only

Illumination on the truth

And innocence of his attitude,

Purpose, and person, but

Also some mental clarity.

After all, this was his vacation.

He wanted to enjoy it.





Elephants in Chains

My mother’s chrysanthemums

Reminded me of a yellow

Elephant in chains. The blue

Dumpster was an elephant too,

As were buses and autos

Lined up, smoking and coughing

On 9th street to the KRNT weather

Beacon in downtown Des Moines

In 1966, the year everything

Happened. I was responsible

For it all happening, and I was certain

I’d be arrested, me and John Lennon,

The one Beatle my father wanted dead.





Does Australia Look Like a Scotty Dog?

I’d ask myself as I stared

At the Mercator map pulled over

The blackboard. It was the Monday

Before Thanksgiving. We were

Studying the conflicts according

To continents. A girl next

To me wore a black and pink silk jacket

That was all about Da Nang.

Her brother sent that to her

For her birthday. They kept

The Christmas tree up for him

Until July. Everyone had luck charms

In those days. I had a blue rabbit’s

Foot, a black rubber coin

Purse chained together by silver

BBs. We ate Maid-Rites, drank

Half pint cartons of milk.

It cost 40 cents if you were

On the lunch program. A dime,

A nickel, and a quarter. I stacked

Them in order of size as I stood

In line: A pyramid lost in overgrowth,

The humid Mayan jungle.





 “If this ain’t nice, I don’t know what is…”

--Kurt Vonnegut

The tree branches spell Roman numeral

XIV with a slash through it. It may

Be days, years before I discover

What nature is trying to tell me.

Is it how many I have left? That would

Place my exit at 79. Meaning? Significance?

If the universe is a doughnut, what flavour

Am I? I was dangerous behind a bump car wheel.

I understood the ritual

Of “The Hall of Mirrors.” I steered

Clear of fortune tellers. I watched

Any tent show with a monkey,

Even if he stole my cotton candy.

Two nights ago, I heard my mother

Call out, “Rus, where are you?” It was

Around 3 am.

She has been dead for nearly 30 years.

I once thought I could hear the stars sizzling.

“Do you hear that?” I asked my dad.

“Hear what?”  “It’s very soft,

But you can hear it. Listen.”





Witches and Ghosts

I saw a witch land on the roof

Next door, now everyone

Claims I’m a witch magnet.

I saw ghosts thumbing rides

From graveyard to lake.

Crows walked around the tombstones.

Driverless VW bugs crowded

The highway past the pine groves.

They sputtered slowly and gave

It their all up hill. A cat meowed

Like it was casting a spell.

Zombies waited in line

At election polls. They

Are still there dropping

Voting hands to the moist

Green grass as the sun rises.

There is an empty beer can

On my stove. I’m pretending

I’m Thoreau of can openers.

The streetlights go to sleep now.

The blue morning buses pick up

Their riders at 6:30 am and head

Downtown past my high school

Fifty years ago, and there is

Still a pack of filter-free Camels

In my trench coat.      





All Souls’ Eve

Cat claws at the door. It’s cold,

The Witch of November has been

Chasing him. Debris of blue barn roofs

Crashes in the fields, twirls down

As if failed helicopter prototypes,

Huge Leonardo planks. A smaller,

More urban tornado, uses the crosswalk.

The tornado is made completely of spinning wind,

Yellow leaves. You don’t have

To answer that, let it ring.

The ghost of the dial tone has blue eyes.

The crosswalk was near a second floor

Apartment the size of a petit four

Where Julia lived with her cat

And clothes. I got the pronoun wrong

All the time. I bought a bag

Of burritos that night. We were clearing

Out her place. She was moving.

Children raced dangerously in the crosswalk,

Wearing plastic masks of The Hulk

And The Power Puff Girls. I warmed

My hands around a cup of instant coffee.

What a treat. What a trick.





The Black Spot

This page has a black spot

On the edging as if

it’s a deserted island in the South

Pacific, one of those places

They tested the bomb:

Uninhabited, uninhabitable.

A black cat knocks something

Over by the sink. I am reminded

Of myself as a judge

At a high school state poetry

Competition, the hatred and scorn

I fetched

From the parents who came

To watch their dear children perform.

Today, I go into retirement

For the 3000th time. I sip

My coffee in seclusion.

I read on the news page

That a coven of witches

Reported it’s useless

To cast spells against

The President at this point.

It only makes him stronger,

Prez being protected

By a power the witches

Can’t figure. I notice

The black spot has one or two

Inhabitants after all: a giraffe,

A hippo. How they

Got there is anyone’s guess.





The Busker

It Took Me Four Days

To hitchhike from Saginaw, sculpt

My head from river clay, harvest apples

From state highway ditches, read

The patterns of migratory birds, beg

For food at four truck stops,

Busk with my guitar and a tin

Lunchbox for money, think up

Enough lies, feel them swim in

My gut, become lyrics. They shut

Down the bakery, then shut

Down the interstate. I can’t nail my

Numbers like a Romanian gymnast.

Nonetheless, I was invited to Count

Dracula’s castle for a poetry conference.

I didn’t attend. My cat Finnegan

Died. I kept walking. I was doubled

Over with confusion. This is not

A country you can wander through

Anymore. No dishwashing jobs

For homeless drifters. I can

Smell the road on my skin.







Rustin Larson's writing appears in the anthologies Wild Gods (New Rivers Press, 2021) and Wapsipinicon Almanac: Selections from Thirty Years (University of Iowa Press, 2023). His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Iowa Review, Puerto Del Sol, The Penn Review, North American Review, and Poetry East. His latest collection is Russian Lullaby for Brother Donkey (Alien Buddha Press, 2024).


No comments:

Post a Comment

One Poem by Antonia Alexandra Klimenko

  Out of Sight     It was a time  when expressions like “hip” and “cool”  weren’t exactly out  but “far out” was really far in!    a time  w...