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 force of
monolingual 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,


A contusion in confusion,
in letters

faced with betters,

Peanowiczer poetry pops

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.