ANGLE POEMS

(EVERY WHICH WAY

COLLECTION)

OF RED DOG PIEFACE

by

Peter Bailey


This publication of Angle Poems of Red Dog Pieface is by Chris Church.


THREE GEOGRAPHIC POEMS

PELICAN SCAN

(—southern tip of Belvedere Island)

I went down for the count & he said welcome icy services continue charge the bill fill the scoop it hurts willy-nilly I dropped my sight into flash  ash  flick fast/as/flicker not mine not mine no mind not mine   water water water —spark

THE TEN THOUSAND ELEVATIONS

(—Bishop Pass, California)

did you know our linty pockets gather accurate particulars for the poems of the wilderness’s top mice?



MOUNTAIN STOP: FOOD & GRASS

(—Bridgeport, California)

cows stone out studs range working cowboys lounge here



QUESTION FOR A Q-TIP   which end do you choose



      MUCH      

so long
as I’
m literally physical
I’
ll “never be mentally sober”
& when
physically literal
my mind is
a
bear
to play                with me
&
ours
s’il vous plait
in the    clean arena
insert   one    circle
vales of the wind hum
and are humming      
about this point
let them!
let us!
let it!



ON THE BUS

this 17-year-old explaining to his buddy the play Of Mice and Men frame by frame like chances of being King Kong



TRYING IT ON

    in the street a 3-year old,     a stranger “hello, how are you?”     continuing “how are you?”     walking “how are you?”     questioning “how are you?”     now



                         

is one way of looking at investigation of what seems not to need investigation leading advances in consensual validation of ways of looking at the way one is?



POOLING KNOWLEDGE

five flailing strokes of Johnny’s tarzan gets flotation’s balls off & into hail water small center; how the two-tinned muscles of time’s hoo & cinch make woe’s crevices’ muses’ ooze so tideness sails its raft, its loot toward more leafing off



THE SEASONS — LES SAISONS

(—POUR “SEGUIN,” un ‘group’ Québecois)

this sharp edge of grandpa’s light show pushes its melting drops with little pale baby fingers into splitting pods. on a hot morning the lichen is lift- able enough to hoe the underside of spring’s tongue, the leaping glint to the sun’s rise about the rounds of the ram’s spiralling horns; hills share the shuttle of twilight’s violet where phrases of the leaves’ silence call for this rising intensity of blues purpling the sap of evening into night,                           black charging white to blend small grays between the two with a hush of tone, the crocus grips its stiff small sword of color by the sedge of grandma’s sharp and clattering snow,         so



LANGUAGE DRIVING MEN MAD #9

(—to the Japanese L, the Chinese R, and the International Cocktail Lounge of the Sky)

SAID the hail-ripped Jap to the risping Chink          (SAID the hare-lipped Jap to the lisping Chink Arong the Corolado Tlair: “The way you’ll clisping          (Along the Colorado Trail: “The way you’re crisping Raula Scuddel’s chips,—tear me, all you brined?          (Laura Scudder’s chips,—tell me, are you blind? Is it Blairre you’ll leading? Werr, I decrale!          (Is it Braille you’re reading? Well, I declare! Now, I reich Lirke and Rolca a rot, but Light          (Now, I like Rilke and Lorca a lot, but Right Is Light! Ret’s ret the Reicha’s apple tool          (Is Right! Let’s let the Leica’s aperture Tark. Ha! My Kamala picks thy snap! … Oh, we’ve srulped          (Talk. Ha! My camera snaps thy pic! … Oh, we’ve slurped Mole than a dorrop of ‘Light Rightning;’          (More than a dollop of ‘White Lightning;’ Ret’s ‘Eena Meena Mina Mo’ sing sincelery, and          (Let’s ‘Eeny Meeny Miny Mo’ sing sincerely, and ‘Catch a Niggel’ by the chiggel; if he horrors ‘Go,’          (Catch a Nigger’ by the nail; if he hollers ‘Go,’ The swollen is rain—we gain the sniggels of anger-choils          (The sworn is lain—we gain the reach of angel-choirs Rustiry berting Hander’s blight Olatolios out!”          (Lustily belting Handel’s bright Oratorios out!”



        ANGELS        

are Cassavetes’ “Husbands” dancing in the dark to the lilt of the silence of who is in the light Land’s ending’s a picnic au jus a table for angels (you know them) their dark strokings of the loom along their sides so cups find dew almost singing quite throatily a distant frog summons ‘Traffic’ into its gentle morning leaping for us   Hokusai’s “Wave” meets a Wave, by Hokusai! with cheering and waving o’er the wham behind and below Oh!…OH!…Ohhh!   take any two stones and rub them: together let’s speak of our fall in the energy loss of angels balling us alive!




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Copyright © 2000 by Peter Bailey