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 the force of a 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.

Now you would not think

The twenty three twi-night years
were a piece with me,

the three seven or so cry-life years
I sat with for several friends,

and any reframed by godly doubt
I sat on sleeping, for all but a wooden

hour where it bled down to the intensive
grass, chewed at limit and listens when:

I was the wretched whiteness
espying the baptismal white dove

I was the wisp flying black on
water as your brown wrist stood firm

I was the tempting color brand just a
shade of external city ways

I was the breed green-of-leaf covering
clung to beatle knit love

I was the clean perfidious river
emaciated in hazy staying lips

I was the coronet shape hatched flat
blowing glass returns from sand

(Now you would not think)
I was the Minnesota feline sound

and Yes, our Yankees win

between an experience
and its expression, the

pink dark tonsil replicates
after a hardening poem

scaffolding, tatters of
aphorism, off-plastic cement

presume gold wrung, up-
raided, appraised, woven

evil tongue to an evil eye
Fauvist read! esconced in a

kennel of statement, once
of simultaneity by abeyance

Loss verbalizing amidst Gar-
gantuas, and arid plateaus,

the Egyptian coda; witticism
smoked upon blue tenement

cedes a censured pod for
cackling falsity mourned

“call it rest, call
it flight, name it freight

(I name it night)”
and Yes, our Yankees win