Biography of Rusty Morrison
Rusty Morrison is an American poet and publisher. She received a BA in English from Mills College in Oakland, California, an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from Saint Mary’s College of California in Moraga, California, and an MA in Education from California State University, San Francisco. She has taught in the MFA program at the University of San Francisco, and was Poet in Residence at Saint Mary’s College in 2009. She has also served as a visiting poet at a number of colleges and universities, including the University of Redlands, Redlands, California; University of Arizona, Tucson, Arizona; Boise State University, Boise, Idaho; Marylhurst University, Marylhurst, Oregon, and Milikin University, Decatur, Illinois. In 2001, Morrison and her husband, Ken Keegan, founded Omnidawn Publishing in Richmond, California and continue to work as co-publishers. She contracted Hepatitis C in her twenties but, like most people diagnosed with this disease, did not experience symptoms for several years. Since then, a focus on issues relating to disability has developed as an area of interest in her writing.
- please advise stop [I might travel his d... -new-
- please advise stop [my father's dying ma... -new-
- please advise stop [the rustle of a Sund... -new-
- please advise stop [I was dragging a lad... -new-
- in the decision of a beginning  -new-
- in the flood -new-
- Necessities -new-
- History of sleep -new-
Rusty Morrison Poems
Eggs, transparent and sometimes red-veined as insect wings, might be hidden in bark crevices or a scatter of tawny leaves.
please advise stop [I might travel his d... -new-
I might travel his death a creaking and swaying beneath me stop there are static expressions freed now and passing along the walls stop an object isn't what is hidden but what smiles out from the hiding please with only the slightest effort I might abandon every father stop or read them all cover to cover please eyes turn like the telling of stories first inward then out stop the next page wasn't the kind of listening I wanted but it was all I was offered stop to reveal as in the Latin re- plus velum meaning veil stop the thought of him still everywhere only a new place to hide please advise
please advise stop [my father's dying ma... -new-
my father's dying makes stairs of every line of text seeming neither to go up or down stop that I make the nodding motion to help myself feel I understand stop in common with his bafflement I find comprehension alone will not suffice stop that I begin to find other books in other rooms were always the same book stop affiliation which comes from the Latin ad- plus filius meaning son stop a correct word would steady more than itself like a banister please first will I need to write any one of the letters that neither of us wrote to the other stop one cannot predict but only open the hands that are inherited stop and watch what they do please advise
please advise stop [the rustle of a Sund... -new-
the rustle of a Sunday bundle of newspapers tucked under my father's arm stop and no father walking toward me stop on the branch only oak leaves reddening as wind ripens their talent for exodus stop on the lawn a scatter of wrens head-down but tail-erect stop no bringing back the other world though every silence sounds for it stop soft hiss then only all the rattle of useless memory caught in the unwieldy bundle of his dying stop where I've tied it stop waiting for the proscenium that the warblers' song might once again build around me stop I purse my lips in an exaggerated exorcism of breath please advise
please advise stop [I was dragging a lad... -new-
I was dragging a ladder slowly over stones stop it was only from out of my thoughts that I could climb stop not from the room please my father's dying offered an indelicate washing of my perception stop the way the centers of some syllables scrub away all other sound stop his corpse merely preparing to speak its new name at the speed of nightfalling please each loss grows from a previously unremarkable vestigial organ stop will I act now as if with a new limb stop a phantom limb of the familial please advise
in the decision of a beginning  -new-
No sensation of falling, which suggests that this condition may be flight. My eyes might be open or not. My coffee poured into a cup or onto the countertop. This, a ball of saved rubberbands or the thick clot of tremors I usually keep deep in the drawer that I can trust will stick when I absent-mindedly forget, and try to open it. What would it mean for a body to yield? A use. That is to say, dew moistens the grass and is gone. The body moves from out of its past with each glimpse of its own disappearance, cumulatively. With each drop of rain the earth's atmosphere pelts its grove of tall cedars and saplings with equal force. A body negating itself as an object possessable. To hold one's breath would be to drown in order to avoid drowning.
in the flood -new-
"yes of course" was one speech too many now you've done it exposed your obsequious emphases hardly speech if disclosing nothing thought to stay blameless in a well-tended hothouse that's now out of use beyond wear not in your possession to break out so lay blame on ritual pronouncements like the unitary root of the whole is torn try knitting cozies to hide your household aporias a little more than mortal how yarn can knit a surface that will flaunt its absences looking at it as though it were behind you is how gnats spin a hole in air & then slip right through it caterpillars moles lost limbs try a little blind reaching surprising what you can find
In through our bedroom window, the full dawn-scape concusses. Difficult to sustain sleep's equilibrium of wordlessness. Naming anything, like stepping barefoot in wet sand up to my ankles. Name after name, sinking me farther beneath waking's buoyancy. House, this morning, is pale with the rush of what night siphoned off. Objects, still emptied of resemblance, hum their chord-less cantos. Bloodless, my knuckles knock on walls without echo, testing singularities. Sun on the cutlery offers an ageless sheen. Though it ages the silver relentlessly. New, but still rudimentary tools to be gleaned from my over-used weaponry.
History of sleep -new-
(a myth of consequences) The ivy across our back fence tangles gray into a green evening light. How a second emptiness un-punctuates the first. Disloyal, we attempt to construct. An ache will tighten but not form. Making impossible even this upsurge of crows across our sightline. The Mayans invented zero so as not to ignore even the gods who wouldn't carry their burdens. Too slippery as prayer, too effortless as longing. Our problem was preparation. Premeditation neutered any rage potential. Years later, the spine of our backyard appears to have always been crooked. White jasmine, dove-calm in the lattice, is not a finely crafted lure.
Please Advise Stop [I Was Dragging A Lad...
I was dragging a ladder slowly over stones stop it was only from out of my thoughts that I could climb stop not from the room please
crowded Monday subway its mindlessness botanical you take the first seat claim it for your age your figural effaced your t-shirt smelling already like somebody
History of sleep
(a myth of consequences)
The ivy across our back fence tangles gray
into a green evening light.
How a second emptiness
un-punctuates the first.
we attempt to construct.