Rustin Larson's Blog
September 7, 2025
August 6, 2025
July 14, 2025
Poets House Showcase
Dear Rustin,
Thank you so much for your donation of Black Rabbit Poems and Flashes of Nightfall Fire the Cricket’s Song for the Poets House Showcase. I’m writing to confirm our receipt of your donation—it is currently being processed for inclusion in the exhibition. Congratulations on the new work!
Our 30th Showcase, a comprehensive exhibition of poetry published in 2024 and 2025, will be on view beginning in December 2025. Your work will be included in the final Showcase Catalog, a print and online document that lists every item in the exhibition, making it the most authoritative resource on poetry works published in 2024 and 2025. Following the Showcase, your book will be incorporated into our permanent collection, available to readers for free. For more general information about the Showcase, please visit our exhibition FAQs.
If you have any questions, feel free to be in touch. Many thanks again for your support of our library.
Best,
Leo Kreider (he/him)
Showcase Lead
July 2, 2025
The Centaurides
https://www.creativeprocess.info/cardona/rustin-larson
For me, poetry – like acting – is a process of self revelation, an exploration of hidden dimensions in myself, a way to become myself. It’s also a process of individuation I try to create throughout my life – a profound experience of the fundamental interconnection of all in the universe. Moreover, writing is cathartic as it extends a search for peace, for serenity, rooted in a desire to transcend and reconcile the fundamental duality I see in life. Ultimately, I seek expansion of consciousness.
–Helene Cardona
June 30, 2025
May 8, 2025
April 28, 2025
April 18, 2025
March 18, 2025
Black Rabbit — A Sub-atomic chapbook
Fighting the oligarchy one bunny hop at a time.
On sale now, $9.39 at lulu.com
Black Rabbit
Eating dandelions
near the swing set
outside the laundromat.
He won’t run.
I am a box
with a carrot inside.
I am a blanket
of strawberry plaid.
I am a picnic
near an abandoned
firetruck. He runs now.
He is wild.
Lute Broadcast
The slow part
makes me think
of a donkey
forced to carry
broken shards
in a burlap sack.
Owls
We burned twigs
in the park’s barbecue.
We roasted hot dogs.
It was late September
and night came earlier
than it did in August.
We watched the embers glow.
The train from Denver
no longer stopped in our town.
We sat in the park
with no train whistles,
but we watched the embers
and felt the owls fly
above us.
Dreaming on Amtrak
The music pursues
toads over rotting logs
and vast forests of mushrooms
The train waits there
for seven hours
No one knows why
Finally a sailor
gets up from his seat
and tracks down the conductor
Something about a bridge
Something about
a missing rail
Golden Hour
Suddenly it is one o’clock. Where
do we go? The sun follows us everywhere.
What if we could follow the sun?
At 6 pm, late September, it is
the golden hour: everything is
silhouetted in a haze of gold.
What if we could always follow
the sun, the golden hour, and be
bathed in gossamer dream light?
