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

WHEN YESTERDAY: A Red Shuttleworth Poetry Chapbook

When Yesterday


Red Shuttleworth

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.

Peaches 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: A Red Shuttleworth Poetry Chapbook

One Year Gone

three poems

Red Shuttleworth

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

Ice-Burdened Moonlight

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


Red Shuttleworth


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


Red Shuttleworth


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


Poet Paul Zarzyski

A Rounder's

31 Quintessential Books

from the American West

Richard Avedon
In the American West

Ralph Beer
The Blind Corral

Barbara Brinson Curiel
Mexican Jenny and Other Poems

Edward Dorn
Way More West: New and Selected Poems

Gretel Ehrlich
The Solace of Open Spaces

Loren D. Estleman
Bloody Season

Jim Fergus
The Wild Girl

William Goyen
The House of Breath

Ron Hansen

Jim Harrison

Kent Haruf
The Tie That Binds

William Heyen
Crazy Horse in Stillness

Julie Jensen
Stray Dogs

Elmer Kelton
The Time It Never Rained

William Kittredge
Owning It All

Adrian  C. Louis
Savage Sunsets

Cormac McCarthy
Blood Meridian

Max McCoy
Hellfire Canyon

Thomas McGuane
Nobody's Angel

Larry McMurtry
Leaving Cheyenne

Michael Ondaatje
The Collected Works of Billy the Kid

Annie Proulx
Fine Just the Way It Is

Kirk Robertson
How the Light Gets In

Lucia St. Clair Robson
Ride the Wind

Billy Joe Shaver
Honky Tonk Hero

Sam  Shepard
Fool for Love and Other Plays

Red Shuttleworth
Western Settings

Jack Spicer
Billy the Kid

Hunter S. Thompson
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Richard S. Wheeler

Paul Zarzyski
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: October 10, 2022

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, a Red Shuttleworth chapbook

Mailbox: December Poems

Red Shuttleworth

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

Hush Time

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.

 Red Shuttleworth

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

In Evidence: 38

In Evidence: 38

Colder than freezing.  Light north wind.
You abandon yourself to volcanic scab rock,
no rabbit-scream predator whistle to fool-in
Mr. Coyote.  You craze-hike a three-mile loop,
not a curse... not even a poplar root to trip over.