Monday, December 30, 2013
You hover sweaty above sleep,
cut-off from brain-churn dreams:
silhouettes of Power's whiskey bottles,
.45 bullets in an over-sized cracked cup,
buttery-wooden Holga camera faces
of glance-back-in-sorrow stained glass saints.
The before-dawn Seattle train breaks wind,
a neighbor's horse kicks at its pipe corral,
ice-fog sinks into the fur of silent coyotes:
you step half-lost into funereal night...
crow hop... hurl a scuffed tennis ball
for a ghost Wolfhound to chase forever.
Friday, December 27, 2013
Red Shuttleworth's first poetry chapbook of 2014, When Yesterday, is pure gold Western Americana, featuring:
Bisbee, Arizona, 1912
Wanette, Oklahoma, 1917
When Yesterday Was My Name: Four Short Poems
Portrait of a Bride Beside a Piano in Helper, Utah
Brass Rivets and Cracked Teeth: Coldwater, Kansas
When Yesterday is published in a limited edition by Bunchgrass Press. It is available... for a brief period of time... by written request to Red Shuttleworth.
on December 23, 2013,
an Irish Wolfhound at Five and a Half Months of Age...
about 28-inches at her shoulders, weighed-in at 89 pounds
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
One Year Gone
One Year Gone, three poems written during Wolfie Shuttleworth's last days in December of 2012, is issued as a limited edition (22 copies) chapbook by Bunchgrass Press for Wolfie's friends.
Wolfie Shuttleworth perished, at the age of five and a half, on January 4, 2013 at Washington State University Veterinary Teaching Hospital where he was unsuccessfully treated for osteosarcoma.
Young Wolfie Shuttleworth
with Red Shuttleworth
One Year Gone presents three poems:
The Droll Impossible
A Few Days
Playwrights and Poets:
Wolfie Shuttleworth and Red Shuttleworth
Special Thanks to Tom Clark for his encouragement.
Although this chapbook is not generally available, the three contained poems can be read on this blog.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
How high-personal, the interpretation
of still photography: coffee grounds on grass,
zooscape bison mugging for day-old bread loaves,
the counting of severed limbs in a Chrysler 300,
billboards of deadpan Nevada hookers
along depopulated High Plains highways,
gnarled children stumbling from pine churches....
How high-personal to define luxury:
shafts of lavendar light in Wiccan stores,
paintings of Kurt Cobain on gold corduroy,
cyclical encounters with one's dope dealer,
spindly girls writing novels at vivid parents
lost in 1990's modernity-gibberish French cinema....
How high-personal to define old age
as a hole-punched Styrofoam coffee cup,
as failed glue and curling wallpaper,
as realtors leaving behind free Kleenex packs.
Monday, December 23, 2013
We are up against curves of prescience,
post-peer tools for comic use against....
Floor and tile stores, for chic-instance,
never arrive at four-stories: ground floor
is good enough for the gods of Linoleum.
That was in the same year photographs
of cancer cells, much enlarged, sold so well.
We went to a movie house to see reels.
Doris Day swallowing. Bobby Thomson
breaking his ankle. Bardot so peaceful...
friendly and peaceful in the Atomic Epoch.
Prehistoric birds came at us in 3-D,
religious assholes like Moses parted
Cinemascope-purple pedophile robes...
and girls screamed... and it was mystical...
like the worst was yet to come... after Ike.
Nowadays we speak Mars-pilgrimages,
redwood carousel mustangs on fire,
grandfather duck-guns in choir lofts.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Millions upon millions of terracotta suns
bright-suspended in a nowhere-expanse:
we are peerless on rock, yes, like tourists
to sandstone cliff caves near the Gobi Desert.
Or tourists, should there be any, in Barstow,
looking for introductions to Wyatt Earp...
his fabled, snake-populated lost copper mines.
Embattled star systems, Hubble-photography,
The American Dream (Woolworth-'n-Topps),
the erased-from-Matthew love interest of Jesus:
then, verily: Dance; let the Dead bury their dead.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
The testing of eyeball or ass-skin ointments:
the stimulations of presidents and emperors
turned out to be about theology... By Jove!
All that group stroke-stumble-stroke,
the reading of polished chicken bones
tossed upon jade-green marble,
the too-ketchupy summer homes....
Mentors came into play, knives thrown,
luck was pushed, and rain came down
like worst-thing-has-happened music.
There was little to do but gaze.
Friday, December 20, 2013
The gap to get across, the cosmic catch:
how we splice memory and iconic visibilities.
Hence the several... processions of bitter-
sweet dark chocolate Santa-upon-Santa.
Your foot is in the wall... missed the door.
Aluminum tinsel and boxes of .40 bullets,
empty-alone and onceless, shimmering
ancient cloth angels set upon miniature
rest home atrium (donated) holiday trees:
loss-anniversaries stack up.
How long has that dog or that lover
or that dull-thread parent been dead?
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Blinkard Jesse James, his filmic reflection,
forms a downward-blood-drip direction...
and viewed over and over we find it classy.
Or as eternal as eternity gets in our version.
Wind-up Roy Rogers toys have been
turned aside by Clint Eastwood bobbleheads?
When everything is poignantly forgotten,
you shall still, in comforting theo-mad theory,
wander great cosmic spaces with a Wolfhound.
Okay... so is it any wonder that no fewer
than two-dozen museums curate splinters
off the rugged True Cross? So it is
that Jesse James' dried brain blood,
tiny sealed-in-resin flakes of it,
sells -- in certain circles-- for far more
than a 50X Gene Autry snow-white Stetson.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Skin-deep audiences rubbed off
with tissue paper... or the skin is peeled,
mere shrubbery, and turquoise horses....
Infusion of mysteries at birth...
from first perceived light:
false tableau of wolf and lamb
followed by sleights with homeless
old mad ladies in wind-punched doorways.
I knew something was dreadfully wrong
the first time they cropped my hair.
We spoke at school of famous artists:
Caligula, Sam Houston, Paul Newman
as Butch Cassidy or Cool Hand Luke.
That was confusion: what, then,
of Hopalong Cassidy and Sean O'Casey?
Once barked and free of yearbooks,
bibles, holy season dioramas,
the standout need was solitude...
and it was hard to arrive at safely.
Monday, December 16, 2013
33 Quintessential Books
from the American West
In the American West
The Blind Corral
Hard Way Out of Hell
Barbara Brinson Curiel
Mexican Jenny and Other Poems
Way More West: New and Selected Poems
The Solace of Open Spaces
Loren D. Estleman
The Wild Girl
The House of Breath
The Tie That Binds
Crazy Horse in Stillness
The Time It Never Rained
Owning It All
Adrian C. Louis
The Collected Works of Billy the Kid
Fine Just the Way It Is
How the Light Gets In
Lucia St. Clair Robson
Ride the Wind
Billy Joe Shaver
Honky Tonk Hero
Fool for Love and Other Plays
Billy the Kid
Larry D. Thomas
The Red, Candle-lit Darkness
Hunter S. Thompson
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Richard S. Wheeler
All This Way for the Short Ride
Coming up with about three dozen quintessential books from the American West is a tough task. No excuses, but another couple dozen or so Western writers (and their books) could have (should have?) been listed, like Edward Abbey, Rick Bass, J.V. Brummels, Norman H. Russell, James Welch, and Peter Wild.
The Late Great Wolfie Shuttleworth
with Red Shuttleworth
Most recent update: December 21, 2018
Sunday, December 15, 2013
One-sided December orb... like a pained eyeball:
amber beer for the brightened road and a CD...
Cowboy Junkies... music of drowse-'n-stumble,
no-ignition lovers, yet-warm Japanese tea bowls.
Dead moon, goof-smile moon, moon-wasted....
We're alone in a puzzle-story rialto... no goods offered.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
(Isaiah, a Red Shuttleworth crayon sketch)
Every time Isaiah nodded off, the Voices
leaked some god's secrets onto his tongue.
Tonight my eyes pass in front of a jiggled
moon hung weepy-faced before time began:
our Sunday products include wool-mouth,
weeping airport strangers, tattered expired-
coupon wallets. Yes, Isaiah 17...
Damascus is a ruinous heap: Jeep-flattened
back-benchers, hand-amputated babies,
Assad kissing fan mail from Putin and Kim.
No wonder the beautifully ribboned
missionary girl asked, You been prayin'
your Isaiah, dude? No wonder breasty
centerfold models no longer read my poems.
Tonight's moon, gap-toothed and pallid,
yeast for bacteria-bread, moans across the sky.
Friday, December 6, 2013
Mailbox: December Poems
Red Shuttleworth's Mailbox: December Poems, with an epigraph from James Clarence Mangan ("I turn from summer's blooms and dyes..."), contains five (mostly revised) poems from 2011:
Not a Short Leash
River of the Sun
What's in the Mailbox?
A Highway Rest Stop Nearby
Mailbox: December Poems is printed in Garamond on 32-pound antique laid ivory paper with a 24-pound banana fiber paper (natural fleck) cover.
Issued by Bunchgrass Press in a limited edition.