After muscles there is
no muscle for use,

true for labor,
true for law;

a loved one’s tongue
kvetching lively flaw.

Freaky ostentation
wants natural law,

come Monday,
come Thursday,

of the torn and of

the weakened.


Father was platonist, heavy rain ’bout
the grip. Mother, Brouwer-bred,

conscriptive grumbling
through her trip. Shtiblville, I know–

name and luck–
a contumelious-type fate. But small

wood outside (unprotuberant
flat), sits

beyond its local gait. A sopping fruited curdle,

insurrect, his ‘fore-score gravity
and neophyte’s guess–

Under dirt for Dedekind’s disparate
sun-sick pore, monikered

‘too cubed’,
holding credulous, only,

unrecorded floated

Would-to-be Academician, pon-
tificate to

what (for an ever)
is, paid down axiomatic lanes,

a postulated soul,

manifest in quiz.

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.