Poem: What Great Troubleshot Fauna We’ve Become by Peter Milne Greiner

I boycott his atoms
 
after a glissade of bunk attempts
then laud their inky, mobile
 
residuum again.
 
The ingredients
of the music are my mimic falsetto
 
and the sound of a door locking
 
and unlocking and locking.
 
This capotasto he handsignals
from god knows where is
 
really a chokechain muffling
 
what taste I have left of him.
 
‘What can I say,’ I picture him
saying, ‘I blackball and revere,
 
make clumsy embargoes, disappear
for a while. You can relate.’
 
The charade mooched once more
 
damns us to the laws of intermittence.
 
A rough arena for our noticing
 
to result in. We could drone
 
like this for decades before the
marquees and antennae of our
 
reckonings cave in on us,
all stalactites utterance-long and line-
 
drawn lips. I says to him, ‘Bro, view
 
what bantam lengths I’ve gone to
 
indexing these deja vus so
 
quarrelsomely to-death-annexable
that clot in our eyes umlaut
 
fluorescence.’ We scatter like pleas
escaping the bottleneck,
 
nurse strata (our new pastime) back
 
to wetlands, and coalesce once
more and half-winded like a Yucatan
 
that perimeters breath. ‘But I suppose
 
you may wish my politely exiled
 
tuchus happy silence now,’ he says.
What rabid sequoia of calculations
could quicken this collusion
 
but poking our nuptial agita squarely
 
its detour?
 
Axe we and what’s left?
 
What and Ever. He goes to Denver.
He goes to Caribou. He goes to Denton.
 
I go to Mystic. And our whole So Far
 
disintegrates in the difference.

(Ed. Note: What Troubleshot Fauna We’ve Become is featured in Exit Strata: Print! No. #1, hot off the presses and soon to be in NYC bookstores)