Poetry of

Red Dog Pieface

by

Peter Bailey

This publication of Poetry of Red Dog Pieface is by Chris Church.

thy sharp teeth

thy sharp teeth; this knot

for Patti and Chris
1972

A Poem

Yes,              Yes,           Yes,  Yes,
Yes,

                                   Yes,

Yes,
    Yes,
        Yes,
Yes,
Yes,                               Yes,
         Yes,
Yes,                      Yes,                      Yes,
                                     Yes,
Yes,              Yes,

                                                           Yes,

Yes,              Yes,

                                           Yes,
Yes,

Yes,

Yes,                     Yes,

Yes,

Yes,

                Yes,

Zen Precepts with End Rhyme

IF you are faced with the

chance - no chance

decision of your life
total war & possible
total devastation outside your
window & every window
within 400 miles
within every window
you’ve ever looked into & through
on sea on land or in the air

you would

fight back-to-back
try to offer help sign
among the “HELP” signs
sit zazen

do gassho because you didn’t
have time to get into the
lotus or any other half-
assed sitting position.

NOISSAPMOC
NONNAK
NONNAWK
KWANNON
KANNON
COMPASSION

Limping
Man

some body
naturally whole
do nothing about him
some body
perfectly proportioning
working humility out
into muscles
to make all hold
the beauty
emerging
as a body
adding
grace to itself
in thanks for

space

Lan
guag
e
Driv
ing
Men
Mad
#33

Gladdings of harlots tol filaments dishing roller’s
phlegms of glee; punch leading simplicities of nipples
crossing green lengths. Grinning grey emoluments
see greetings by ear, printing borne leaps and flowers
of cussing tip. Pluralities skim lops of rocks and
chains while Missouri leaves. Spread noodle
beaming! Tour jests broken shoes of eye-born tiring.
Move stripes, delve noon! Grace parks a dark kin,
lobbing voted elbows near whole-grained poles
parrying shifts of facades into chests and echoes. Sell
all long enough to select. Hide a blue neophyte
where shirts won’t mind. Myriad blades are closer to
response then skating emblems of darning bellies.
Another fling charged with sides rushes golden bells
to my flanks of tides. A groom refurbishes a lake,
urging chains of man to pimp slim wrists of power
toward the soiled assumptions as platformed
guerdons, ballistically circuited and eerily diggable,
emerge.

to my new
STOVE

until i knew god
as a great white stove
i didn’t know shit from shinole
now i know god
is a great a white stove
i light my pilot toward a farther store

(nothing like black nigger grease to make roach-
shit and mouse-turds total two different nosings)

the floor is wet
the air is clean
put the cupboards in the cupboards
this set is scened

the pilot is lit
the oyster is diving
flickings and burnings
keep me alive

thank you

2/24/81

drink
deep

drink
deep
of
your
own
spirit:
let
it fill
the
glass

—Red Dog Pieface 1987

Daydream

imagine
how spacey
for a cat slumming away all the later afternoon sunlight
                                                through lace curtain
                                                spots & drops
                                                all over her
                                                heaving
                                                leopard
                                                fur

Secret Plot of My New Novel

swimming, as one upon later reflection does
call such an addled passaging, through life

Botticelli
as
Mercury

Ankles of milk bathe in pungent award,
dimpling no print; Cupid’s wet his flint; arms uplifted bare tulip’s inner glows
and, all about, the smooth articulation
of experienced love lubricates each line
of this enchantment which he dares to sing.
Behind the scenes, innocence rushes bewildered
among the trees, shaking to be hurt
and hides in a thicket, thinking to become a thrush.
Sandro slips inside the crimson chlamys.
Understanding gods most perfectly,
he points, daring us to puff a clue
behind the eyes as wide as brows and smiles of
mayonnaise.
We guess at sorrows, beauty’s pestilences,
but he stands posed before them, charming every
sense.

Crossing to the Other Sides Series
(Skinny leaf episode,
Dry arroyo, etc.)

Outwitting all comment,
        the stubborn mule continued
    to pick
his own particular
    pocketa-pocketa-pocketa
    pocketa along his particular part
                                    of the scree
    and we all ended up on the other
    side with no loss of life or limb
    or mule,
    for a mule’s no fool

in this summer night

in
this
summer
night

there’s
only
room
for one:

mosquito?
man?

City Geography Data #

At 7:15 am
As three ladies
two elderly gents
and one freak make
tai chi
under fog-drenched trees
the March wind
and a single sheet
of paper fold—
and unfold
the four directions
along this street—
dark and light
words
pictures

Sleeping under clouds on the mats of heaven

Starting from the size
the soft edges of the size
& then not the size but the shape
& suddenly not the shape but the colors
& then falling
down far into down
into more than a sleep
into the silence of an embrace
without the embrace
as if needles in every point of my body
are withdrawn all at once
& a quivering finds & stills its pulse
by comforting itself
with the center shining & revolving
covering & uncovering
the colors
of the shapes
of the size
of the soft edges
where it begins

There is nothing so valuable as friendship

There is nothing so valuable as friendship
with no wording. Just the ribs of
a leaf’s structure, with chromosomy imagination.
The leaf held in the hand, a hand
over the hand clasped. Our hands. Ours
to clasp and unclasp whenever there is
need. It is true. Yes. A lucid
understanding with only the aberration of
distance past the uncleared spaces of the
mind. The aberration is infinitesimal,
as in the stars.

Boor. Drop. Drudge. The narrow oarlock holds
the narrower oar. Confined, so. And yet
the tip of the oar dips in the free
connected seas and gleams in sunlight
as the water flicks from its end sheening.
So you, climbing your circular iron staircase,
never quite seeing the open space at the top
and you can hear laughter—between the
measured drudgery of your changing steps.
So why should your hope falter? You have
seen the sun, and its light peers forth
from behind your sheltered lashes. It is
there. I have seen it.

Catch the sunlight as it escapes through the
confines of your lashes and hold it to
heart. Bask in it and rub yourself with
it, anoint your body and your inner body and
your inner inness with sunlight.
There is enough to keep you warm all your
days, even though you never reach the top
of the rusty iron staircase. The laughter
may be soft and hallowed, but some day you
will realize that it is your own laughter
and that it has always been your own
laughter.

Chink. Slug. Squeal. Stop and turn around,
coming back to every day.

Slowly the point of the silver lancet of
thought pierces the spongy gray volutions
of brain, and up from the depths the cloud
of uncertainty boils and dissipates. The
sunlight, its straight rays pierced, falls
to the ground and spreads in pools. Pools
within pools, each cooler and darker than
the last. Within the innest pool, a white
arm, a white hand cupped. A knowing unperformed
tear held.

My name is the Rock. The sun that beats against
my sides is contained, radiated; the seas
that hurl themselves upon me are pushing
away mindful of strength; my power is made
up of all your little powers and as I think
of you I gather strength; wisdom beats
against my granite brow; you, because of
you.

a wild goose

a wild goose
         flies
                   across the sky

its wings reflect
         in the cold
                   water

the bird does not mean
         to leave
                   its image

the water
         has no desire
                   to retain it

°

DON’T BE SADDISH, BITE THIS…

Poetry of Red Dog Pieface by Peter Bailey