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There Is No San Lenín

Chip Livingston

i know there’s no blue prince
like the beast of the apocalypse removed

separated by mountain chains lenín
is my revolution* my destination

into the clouds of his name
an all-ism forcing me into exile

lenín is thirst and craving
is the human man made true

/\ /\ /\ /\

and what fat chance this
cumulus sundry sums a bold thing lofty

enough to break regimen situated
in the garden of theoretical significance

the gocho is wearing an unusual hat
el timotocuica is bright and shy

*because of his revolutionary activities
lenín is exempt from sainthood

Chip Livingston is a mixed-blood Creek poet and the author of several books, including Saints of the Republic (Spuyten Duyvil, 2023) and Crow-Blue, Crow-Black (NYQ Books, 2012). He is also the editor of Love, Loosha: The Letters of Lucia Berlin and Kenward Elmslie (University of New Mexico Press, 2022).

A mentor in the low-residency MFA program at the Institute of American Indian Arts, Livingston lives in Montevideo, Uruguay.

About Chip Livingston

Occasion

Native American Heritage Month

Themes

About this Poem

“‘There Is No San Lenín’ completes a series of poems I wrote, Saints of the Republic, combining the researched biographies of various saints with the lives of real or imagined lovers—in this case a real one, a guapo Gocho/Timotocuica from the Andes of what is now Venezuela.”
—Chip Livingston

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More by this poet

San Benito

the black bird stripped off their feathers 
they issued the jubilee of plenary indulgence
in eucharistic communion expressing effects 
of anxieties intercessed and intersexed 

the black bird stripped off their feathers 
and threw themselves into a thicket of thorns 
protected by presence of viper and crown
a sacramental medal of uncertain origin

the poison was offered the glass was broken  
they issued the jubilee of plenary indulgence
the black bird stripped off their feathers

Chip Livingston

2018

Palo Borracho

The jacaranda blooms beside the drunk stick tree.
Come. I see you swelling with nectar. Hear you,
Venteveos, shriek till night. Come. See me.
The jacaranda blooms beside the drunk stick tree.
The violent violet petals pollen weep.
A bichofeo sings of you with open throat and beak.
A jacaranda blooms beside the drunk stick tree.
I see you swell with nectar, hear you shriek.

Chip Livingston

2016

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There Is No San Lenín

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