The Operating System

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)

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