Peter Milne Greiner     

 

An Earthlike Planet for Ianthe Brautigan

One Little Bit of Everything

Oh, Panthalassa

 

An Earthlike Planet for Ianthe Brautigan

 

If particles are possible
consciousness roving
through all that damned dark
then I guess we did arrive
here by intervention huh
Still, we will find no solace deserved
in the somewhat assembled
answers, even if they are as blue 
and green as Virginia Woolf 
said they would be, if they are a 
duet whose emergent sense
is modeled after anything
that shifts, that collides on two
legs, anything that is expansion 
by nature, anything that can trace
its bloodline back to hydrogen
    Look
I’m no scientist but I know that
the Big Bang happened and then
I was here because you led me here

 

One Little Bit of Everything

 

If the weight of the universe is so heavy
then you’re a shitty Atlas
Fiona     These are the outer chapters
and salvage of it, not even that totally
vital core they talk about
The superdense gene puddle all insulin 
and emergence and fat
with the foreseeable
Hold up at least its rune and integer
to the sun and the html of each stable
moment will scatter across my floor
like a line of reason, finally
In the eye of the Giant Pacific Garbage Spiral,
its martyry center, I blunt my life
on everything I’m trying to convince you is light
You Fiona you
are plutonium 
Your unavailable depths
You are so pesky
You are the first bridge built using math
and I’m the second
Ever the beta dog
The lost monument
My traces can be seen from orbit
I can ping the far future
It can be extrapolated that I once upheld
something, that every concession
loop’s inane parable
morals down to a bitter, confounding bitumen
of pledges
Read the inscription’s gibberish 
Synthesize, equate
Look in the secret chamber that doesn’t exist
You’ll find your strength there

 

Oh, Panthalassa

 

Today I will bring forth no evidence of having
done anything
Your crop of blockades and ceaseless
rustling epoxies is an odd diet
I must grow out of
because the Earth’s debut shoreline
is not a somewhat level, somewhat smashed 
cadmium of epiphanal detachments, 
not my propolis of the periphery, 
after all
What we share, what is common to us
is nothing so fanciful as air and water moving
but something much more minuscule
One obscure trauma behind a paywall of unsorted continua 
My eyes—guess where they are now—have known the procession
of hideshirt to hairshirt like regolith to Rockefeller
My hands have known the white cliffs of Dover,
the common Earth diamond, the allspice tree, early
wheat, and the Thing that underlies them all
I’m someday specks of consensus in its calico extent
There is proof of that on my tools for transfixing
but they’re from the Stone Age, earlier even,
the Stick Age
Being a born naturalist I have a motto
The sea is buxom but azygous
The one that carries
the known apart
It is no different from me


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Peter Milne Greiner was born in the valley and raised in the hills. He is the author of the chapbook Executive Producer Chris Carter (The Operating System 2014). His poetry, science fiction, and other writings have appeared in Fence, OMNI Reboot, H_NGM_N, NightBlock, Coldfront, HARIBO, and elsewhere. He lives in Brooklyn.