Fresh Red Dog Pieface


Fresh Red Dog Pieface and Red Dog Pieface are Chris Church publications.

Fresh Red Dog Pieface: Saturday, April 07, 2007

Work on

All Sinks Love Clear Thinking

for D.I. from R.D.P.F. 11/28/79

while transferring the crisco
the freshly opened wound-edge
an innocuous planter's spanish peanut can suitable to
a bedside manner for an adorable doctor,
in my birthday suit, buttons exposed and lapels creased,
      long for you
the tightly-sewn satin pillows of your stomach, the
depressions there from my head's rest,
   (can a peacock rest its head?)
      to image you forth takes
a hundred thousand satin-covered buttons
      in your sleek array
      some satin limousine takes
all my worry-shaking-bead-taking
      heart shriek
into wonderful pillows beyond suffocation's rap
School is Go
      under the tow-bridge
      the dowels fit with which
      thee and I endow


posted 8:07 PM

Work on

Cities and Keys

When the city of San Francosia entered into me and I into it, ancient chevys trembled in their muni rusts as loose pigeons clambered, slim Chinese ignored skinny shanks, the yelps of dogs in orange plastic envelopes were mailed to the more than four corners of beaches of the world I love, all within this city of weary blokes and doxies, resting. Heigh-ho, like a sigh!

The fish in the water meant what they did as they slid up to the hooks, eyes, nets, traps, seines and all the other ladders of an indifferently laid-on strife.

In San Francosia all dots are splotches, blurbs, dabs, scallops, oil blots, earrings, clamors, whey bumps, headphone curlers, damp and untwisted buttonholes. San Francosia is known only to the suspended few gazing and rapt down the filmstrip street, the soundsprocket sidewalk where no mania's large enough to hold the mayonnaise man far and wee. Whistles dive where no curb curves such straight streets.

San Francosia's paragraphs drink between indentations, share books, shift stools, compare the incomparable air, too thick, too sold, too June, too old; tules unfold in a valley's weary pages turn by windshield wipers no sky can pipe beyond murk.

All can leave; none may stay. The sky of San Francosia alone sticks to its inhabitants, by longs and shorts bellowing its moonglue toward its assertive sun. Pigeons

darkly descend to the jacquard blots before sunrise with no light upon them. Only then to the fluffed lids of the foreigner in the streets of San Francosia do the tightly carded pigeons' vanes raise the darkness into these sudden blots and blurbs, these sheer shanks of smirches, the ones reconstituting San Francosia's alleys and accents into streets no welcome farewells by land or sea.

I salute with one eave of departure the uncaring sea.


posted 7:19 PM

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