Peter Milne Greiner:  In the Alien’s Abdomen



In Joshua Tree and Marfa and in Whitefish, Montana

I want so desperately to remain a little naïve,


to call a comet by its Latin name, to misconstrue all

my observations


At the bottom of the Stanley Cup everyone is everyone


At The Topiary of Terror—an American bar in Reykjavik—

my love pentagram consists of assorted conceits and the Virgos


resist the last sips of beer


I type them all A and they laugh and laugh and laugh and clone

extinct reasons to proceed with abandon


and I inhabit that abandon like mitochondria,

the alien storyless given that keeps on giving


One by one, I escape the places I have become over the course of a trillion seconds


After the datarush, its core-sampled sites far from resemble

any proto-Eden I’ve ever read a paragraph about on the internet


In the secret labs in the secret hamlets the facts are fudged clean

and lustrous


I await them with undressed wounds 




I open the folder called Featured Exotic

Obstacles & Their Peril

and find my friends

Fissures, Rivers of Lava,


Whitewater, IEDs in Postwar


I open the folder called Balance Beam

but it hasn’t been invented yet


except in Star Trek

so I do my favorite thing and wait

         for it and then I point the beam at my eye

because I’m a jackass and I cross


the beam into my brain

I open the folder called Simple Invented Things

and find Fire, Penicillin, Paroxysms

of Indifference I Fly Into When Suddenly


Whole Seasons I’ve Tried To Discard

Show Up Again In Ugly Words

Like Duende

—What a trash word, that—


And the beam lights up all my neurons

like comets with spacecraft crashed into them

And fresh souls pass through puberty

and make music that makes me


feel like Leonard Cohen

And a trillion parties are thrown and I go

to every single one and ghost

And I am a mysterious exclave


There are traces of radiation in my soft tissue

I respond to attempts at communication intermittently

and the swords and the sorcery and the process

and the progress are my life


         I perpetuate the legacies of marble

sculpture and paradoxical thought

I am ecosystem, empire, archive, the concourses,

the fountains, the annexes, and there is no looking


back, there is nothing to look back at,

and I open the folder called Nothing

To Look Back At and the hydrocodone glistens in my blood

like shoals of piranhas




Dear Diary, the new spell is too wordy

despite a certain acumen that shines


through like definite threat,

expansive, gripping threat


but this threat is not for me

wish though I may myself luck in


casting it elsewhere

What orbit-decaying metamorphoses


will search my soul over, find

its Groom Lake and infiltrate, Diary


When will the pretty lime crumble

in my hands like a ‘zoic Period, title


a textbook chapter and subduct into oblivion

O user manual of treacherous subheadings


I read from you in ancient English

inside a circle of crushed uranium


and wait for my gods to talk to me

through the radar, through wrath,


top secret clearance, dark arts,

helicopter blade, retina scan, green candle, axolotl,


poison dagger in the alien’s abdomen,

through all pure, all-consuming languages of possession


Love, Peter




What the future

monitors my wants for is self-serving




What the fuel

left to its own devices


sleeps in is darkness




What the fungi

advances is delay


better loved


What the fullfillers 

deprive us all of is after


after after what the comes


after the whatafter


after the afterwhat the Funnel of Love

whose swan-shaped gondola idles


and tranquilizes the harmless the

innocent Earth gravity the loyal crust


the devoted mantle harms the martyred core


After what I wait for is what I fuck for

the etceterine and the abbreviative what

waits for me always and you are

its guardian


its zinc arrow


its authenticated credential


its ventriloquism

Peter Milne Greiner's work has been featured in Motherboard, Dark Mountain, Fence, SciArt Magazine, and elsewhere, and has been lauded by the likes of Jeff VanderMeer and Claire L. Evans. He studied poetry at The New School under Sekou Sundiata, and is a scholar of the history of the Roaring Forties. In July of 2013 he sent a poem into space through the Jamesburg Earth Station in Carmel Valley, California. He is the author of the chapbook Executive Producer Chris Carter. LOST CITY HYDROTHERMAL Field is his first full length collection.