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.