[wpaudio url=”/audio/march11/livingston.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
You’re staring straight into the face of doubt and a spicy chicken sandwich. You overcooked your getting psyched, and it’s your saint’s day, and you refuse to throw it away, even though you’re down $200 from an emergency vet visit, and you’re locked in the social insecurity office, where it seems like a lot of people are frequent smokers and occasional bathers. You’re too smart to be gritty, not up to touring around with Dr. Feelgood and the Interns exactly, more like in silence therapy, but you’re starting to get a vibe from an organ, as if your life were coming true. You wonder if you show your muscle. Your hunger. You know those planets are stacking up.