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).
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