The Poetry in Peanowicz

The poetry in Peanowicz is not poetry,
that is said. It is learned, it is spurned.

It is inserted, that is, it’s read. The poetry
in Peanowicz did not begin, a non-

occurring ointment not to be reversed.
It was. It is. Even as, it is rehearsed.

The poetry in Peanowicz pursues a reason
as if air. A logic’s din, a logic’s dark,

reserving force of mono-lingual care.
Are they sound names, they, which each

Peanowiczer poet receives?
Parallel, found, variable, bound–

Peanowiczer poet, he believes.
The poetry in Peanowicz rescinds a

conceptual farce, well?
A contusion in confusion, in letters

faced with betters, Peanowiczer poetry
pops conjoined to a fever’s ready phrase.

The poetry in Peanowicz has no asking
point to quell–

The poetry in Peanowicz is not poetry.
That’s a yell.