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Peter Milne Greiner




Boring odysseys, Rachel,

I preamble not in my head

voice but in my

thorax voice because, swelling,

I couldn’t choke a coherent

much less appealing enigma

from those gooey

tabloids of sentience our brains

have become     We’re out-

moded and out-mottoed

at least until we learn to adapt

which will be never or it will be

right now     Our hearts’ afterwords

and confabulations

are a Nerf pain aria loose

over the years and itchy as a son

of a bitch and of all

our proposed correctings

the one I tend to daily hatch

a little more is the launch

of a hulking Alien-style

Nostromo of my own

Amenities and creature

comforts just totally not a thing

I too sulk across the hazy

obstacle-obfuscated galaxy

with a Howard Hanson

symphony playing in the background

Sadly, tastefully

Not an optimistic and unbuyable

nostrum like the end of Silent Running

Man, all the lustrous Earthlets

not out there just waiting

for me to find them

Can you even imagine

Again, Passage Theory is young

and controversial

There are, fighting a Damp War,

two camps separated by one

very fine extinction

The hawk bites the gloved hand,

is scolded magnanimously

Resolution by the liter leaks

onto the ground of wherever

and the unmistakable

likeness of Johnny Quest

appears as a stain and I worship it,

him, forever so bye






Dry land is glitch-pop arranged for birdsong

ukelele and interception

My silvery afternoons of ascribing

properties and shrill druggy

gradients     They arch over us now

like the old heavens in old Fricky paintings

Like fresh default settings

Those meretricious grids     Their tinsel and carrot accolades 

The sweepstaken shores     The constant plain noise of the east

I play the whole aleatoric mess that is the past

on Gary Newman’s first synthesizer

Competing ambiences hurry to petrify and sell as souvenir

dirty starts

The rest     That is the present and what follows

is mere accompaniment

What is soft under the foot

is generally quite narrow

I have stepped off these things

I have found my quaint obscurity in the rough inland hub of everyone’s coordinates







I sent up all the flares

A dilettante luddite succumbed to

and the postponements put off,

my season’s worth of seconds

crufts under one twilight’s metered

silage of beginnings     I reread surrender

like an atlas every day and

play the fulcrum often but

amateurly     My tenor passes

for pace, a chapel-voiced array in a gust of gloved

land   I handle his truce-

bitten equinox—there’s a his now—and alm what winter

fronts to others     The phone’s pausey

silence and powdery increments of time

cure in then desert our immense little theories

Our follicles chime now and again though     The Drake

Equation is lit by our manila vigils

for it at such times and my last open

metronomic word paws

his frenula like a pending eclipse and Pow!

My hymn’s ugly brisance narrows to a reason,

to one crude poise-breaking note

between what’s me and what’s mere

and guess what’s left?  Lumbar footage,

provisos, nada

What a great myth a god of negotiations makes, right?

And these wildernesses they title us

things like Gemini and affianced

but not when hiatus like gnats crowds my dopplered

view of the year’s hoarded dismissals

and thirty times or forty down to that varmint shore

cobbled with Ian

Curtis permanence my toes

grasp the veto, the Big One, the cartoon

white flag, you know the one I’m talking about

because, you see, I’m fluent in the masque and argot

of ordinary things coming to pass

Bonnie Raitt has a great song about that

She wouldn’t go to Mars with me, either

It’s fine     I’ve decided to stay here, anyway

Night’s various bright spots of credulity

grant me semi-false, semi-true passage

and I wonder, again, how something can be so faint

and so vast, how ache stampedes now at the

speed of absolutely nothing at all







Elope, underdog, instead

with the bentwood aspect of youth

that treats peroxide with minor

cuts and aberrant patience     We idle in this house

alone     Neil Percival Young sings

helplessly in the background and the drama

unfolds like wisdom unless

I forget the Milky Way

waver of loot and summonings

his belt, that twilit equator, verges upon

and percusses     ‘If your heart,’ he says,

‘is a trampoline, watch the error

detonate in us midair before we land

broken-wristed, feet-socked on

the grass and look out past the ribs

of the Earth, puddles of dopey

lanolin and tragic relief’

My favorite songs by other people born before me

are the ones I make up that don’t rhyme or have

a tune     I breathe the punchline

in, pilot my exposure away

from his, but too late

‘We take,’ he chimes,

‘too many hits in the hope

of poking a stoic


I will sing a super high note, too, over the last chorus’ lost bombast

I hear that encrypted in his lilt

In the secret ease and strain alphabet

I’m telling you


is there

Then in ’07 lightning bug, vows, burn pile, odd

couple of signatures

I don’t remember much

of that summer actually

because I was too busy not taking

responsibility for my actions

If I bent enzymes to my aimless will

it was in the name of raising time from the alive

Every year is a lab in which I innovate past

transgressions     At night under the Dippers

I hear the city out in the dark breaking

branches, chewing lichen,

dodging predators, being wild in the luciferace-lit,

intermittently broken

ampule of undergrowth

The sound of creeping sap is not white noise

and stars are either contractions or acts of possession

or my two favorite constellations,

Pocahontas and Marlon Brando

I remember that from time to time,

flushing the eyes out with experiment for

ten to fifteen randomized minutes,

peering out from this bright but vacant rune

called what I accept as being right now

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