THREE POEMS by TIM LIVINGSTON

Starstruck by the river

Transparently I need money again.

There are puddles on the dock

seeping into rot, plus the truck

needs new tires, plus there isn’t any fire yet.

Now I introduce you to my wife.

Now we drink chocolate milk together.

The costs add up—

there are children who don’t yet

know how many children

the river has swallowed.

Now I order that you make the order—

to do group calisthenics, etc.

There are geese

bleeding on the banks

so that only the brick is dry

and it’s red anyhow.

There’s a barking dog

around here somewhere

who carries my world

in the glimmer of his teeth.

There’s a blond child.

Now there are two.

Now the wooded river

runs fast with winter.

There’s no time to talk

politics. No, but I admire it.

It won’t apologize for the killings

It’s far too busy running.


In the valleys

In the valleys, Randy,

my erstwhile Airbnb host,

has been holding my poetry hostage.

His demands include aromatherapy oils and kibble—

for his dog, he says—which I’m not willing to provide

and wouldn’t know where to find.

All the radio stations are different now, Randy.

The grocery stores go by other names.

Plus the mountains, which I haven’t mentioned.

I ask what’s left behind—A sonnet on a postcard from the last trip?

Notes on a haiku sequence about made-up forests?

—only so I know what to replace

but the wifi’s halting bubbles

give way to “too late 😭 ”

I don’t need this, Randy!

I know exactly what you mean by “too late 😭 ”

but you should know that I’m the only one

who can kill my poems, so it never really is.

You have to understand—

Vacation is for being a stranger,

which means I have less to lose—

the totality produced in

rental homes, college campuses,

and the average Roman Catholic diocese

escapes me like schematics

escape a desperate mechanic

and intuition sets in.

Always a small-a anarchist

except in a foxhole—aren’t we, Randy?

There’s an injustice here.

Parakeets get more mice than owls these days.

They’re burdened by their freedom, what it’s worth to them.

For me, it would be like armor. Weaponry inverted, solicitous.

America is made of dials and knobs,

levers and buttons with lottery results,

but none of them plugged in—

except the ones labeled

“Hurricane,” “Victory parade,”

“Mass shooting,” and “Marriage.”

Those work fine—

in fact they’re carefully maintained

like dire slots.

The rest are crosswalk triggers,

giving a silent sense of control.

It’s keeping people out—

It leads to numbing conclusions—it leads

to paranoia—It leads to pedestrian chaos—

It’s cheap that way.

Not for me, Randy!

Not anymore.

I endeavor to the science of pain

to incompletionism

to the individual—

so I’m starting my own empire.

We’ll meet once a month

in the old gazebo by the manmade lake.

I hope you can make it.


Notes on eating a salad

Croutons should be scheduled

with cocaine and the rest

of the amphetamines

for the way they won't sit

on your fork. It's a heartrace

every time you scoop one and crunch

It's a wonder they ever

make it to your mouth.

As far as I'm concerned

you shouldn't drench

the bowl with dressing

Only let each ingredient

each observant

cherry tomato

retain itself—

what makes it magical

and understands it—

and it'll be plenty.

And then

imagine withholding

the shaved parmesan.

What you'd be missing?

It's better to know than

not to know.

Anyways, what makes a fruit?

Seeds, primarily.

Being born. And then

a leaf is anything

that’s a halo.

Anything made better

with salt and pepper and protein.

And at the end, there are always

too many croutons.


Tim Livingston (they/them) is a poet and proud Pennsylvanian, living in Philadelphia with their cat, Mamma Mia!, and seven tattoos. Two truths and a lie: they can blow bubbles with their tongue, they haven't had a haircut since the pandemic, they have been nominated for a Pushcart prize.

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A POEM by ELLY BELLE