Dean J. Baker – Poetry, and prose poems

Those who neither read my poetry, comment on the posted work, nor buy my books can be likened to having Van Gogh’s ear for music.

I Walk These Streets

Posted by deanjbaker on January 7, 2012

I walk O’Connell Street, across
the Liffey, then down
the Via Veneto; wander amidst
the Florentine wares, stride
from the Spanish Steps, Omonia Square

I come back to myself, out
of the orange groves; away
from Key Largo, and onto the streets
I know so well, invaded now
by strangers and violent sheep

I look every place, weighed
by responsibility and imminent
doom; I cannot find it
on Morro, or Higuera: nor anywhere,
else except within these lines I tell myself

©Dean J. Baker

LIMITED EDITION BOOKS ON SALE HERE(signed upon request): Dean J. Baker

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. All material is covered by international intellectual property laws. All characters are the sole property of ©Dean J. Baker and have been so since 2005-2006. They may not be used in any form. Failure to comply with this will be taken as copyright infringement and plagiarism and acted upon with all and full legal means. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dean J. Baker with appropriate and specific direction to the original content, and the author is informed.

Posted in Beauty, Desire, Inspiration, Literature, Poetry | Tagged: , | 5 Comments »

The Person Who Owns My Fingerprints

Posted by deanjbaker on January 2, 2012

If the person who owns my fingerprints
Told me last week what he had
In store for me the past few days, I would
Most certainly have done something about it

Threatened him with a comb, or failing to buy
Enough cigarettes; maybe even an ultimatum
Saying I have had enough, I repent:
I promise I’ll do whatever can be changed

Now they have me locked up, in a corner
Where I scribble notes, and poems;
Bent over the desk, drinking endless cups
Of coffee, not wondering what all before this meant

As I make my escape one sunny day, the swift
Earth frozen this way; the snow trackless
It’s so cold, my breath escapes, giving me away,
Away: I’m still here, I must confess again

©Dean J. Baker
LIMITED EDITION BOOKS ON SALE HERE(signed upon request): Dean J. Baker

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. All material is covered by international intellectual property laws. All characters are the sole property of ©Dean J. Baker and have been so since 2005-2006. They may not be used in any form. Failure to comply with this will be taken as copyright infringement and plagiarism and acted upon with all and full legal means. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dean J. Baker with appropriate and specific direction to the original content, and the author is informed.

Posted in Dreams, Inspiration, Literature, Poetry | Tagged: , , , | 3 Comments »

Cousin Harold, and The Real Ventriloquists

Posted by deanjbaker on December 29, 2011

For a time, Harold was known as Sir Poopy Pants in his childhood, and it came back to haunt him when he was grown up.
Harold was not someone girls would look at and feel themselves getting tingly alerts anywhere; neither was he pugly enough you’d find him staring at you from some Post Office wall, or FBI bulletin.
You sort of looked and wondered hmm what’s this guy going to do next.

I recall one time in that lost world when we went out to a restaurant. My brother, Harold, myself, and my brother’s recalcitrant girlfriend who had a child thing accompanying her. Sort of like a lump, but not cancerous.
My brother had been getting on my case about so many girls.
“She just has big tits, and wants to fuck you. There’s no future there.”
“Yes, and your point is?”
“And that other one, she’s a slut!”
“I can hope.”
“Well, don’t you want a girl you can be faithful to?!”
“I’m faithful to them all.”
“And what about how you introduced Starr and Ni to me? This is my past girlfriend, and this is my future girlfriend! Do you think they enjoyed that?”
“Not my fault. I’m just very accepting.”
At which point of course he grimaced, shook his head, and surrendered me to the Devil.

We proceeded to the table, where the child lump was granted a special high table for himself.
Having gone through the meal, I noticed that the little twerp had stopped smiling, and kicking his legs. He was now squeezing his fists, getting quiet and concentrating.

I asked my brother what was going on.

“Hey, what’s the nimrod doing? Lookit him. His fists are all tight, and he’s getting red in the face.”
“He’s taking a dump.”
Damn. Talk about the advantages of being pint-sized. Eat your fill, then squeeze and spill.

“Hey Harold, you sure this isn’t your kid? He’s filled up, and now he’s barking out his ass.”

Harold could only look enviously at the little turdburglar.
“Well, I’ve invented something for that, for all those busy office dickheads.”
Hmm… Harold inventing. Ruhroh, this ought to be good.
“So what did you invent, Harold?”

“I call it the NapperCrapper™2011. An office lounge chair, with a fridge on the side, and an offering pot on the bottom. I’ll be able to stock up, watch tv, eat and obtain relief without ever moving.”
“Gee, Harold, inspired by the witless nimrod here?”
“Well yes, who doesn’t want a return to a childhood of innocence, that misplaced sense of ignorance and reverie? Look at the little bastid. He fills up, he gets relief, and feels warm for awhile. People tuck at his chin, coo at him, and all he does is smile. Meanwhile he’s carrying a load of nuclear poo.”
“Now, Harold if you put a motor on that, powered by methane, and a top, you’d be the energy conservateur deluxe. Green Man, celebrated everywhere!”
“Dean, I’d be on my throne, in my home, and therefore, the new Renaissance Man.”

Philosophy was always Harold’s strong point.

We got up to leave, and I scurried over toward the baby nimrod, all gurgly and smiling now that he’d unloaded. Looking off to both sides, I pointed The Toothless One at him and gave voice to the oracle.
A nice mumbler, sort of like another kid with bad breath going nyah nyah.

The miniature Gumby stopped moving and squeezed his fists together a moment before starting a howl heard throughout the restaurant.
“I bless you,” I muttered to the little house pest, before running off about a dozen feet away, as if nothing had happened.

My brother and his soon to be ex-girlfriend started scowling. I almost felt remorse, but cheered up immeasurably when Harold gave me the thumbs up.
She squealed, what happened. And my brother of course said, well what do you think, my brother the seagull farted on the kid.

“Well, the little bastid took a shit at the table,” I grumbled.
“He’s just a baby! What’s your excuse!?”
“I was trying to help. Show him that’s the proper way to blow gas in public. After all, we know a fart is just shit without the mess.”

Harold just grinned, and said, “Come on Plato, they have to clean up the genius. We have already spread the gospel.”
“What do you mean, Harold?”
“Well, you don’t think the kid was the only one at that table, polluting the atmosphere, do ya?”

It turned out that Harold had the same problem as the baby nimrod, so he had learned to muffle his announcements; and in fact went further, learning to throw his voice, so to speak.
Every time it seemed that le petite Gumby had choked out a bark, it was really Harold.

My brother and his girlfriend, listening to this exchange, just sighed and rushed out before anything else could happen.

Who knew that among his talents as inventor, Harold was also such a clever ventriloquist.

“Harold, you ought to get a job as a politician.” ‘Rawwwk!’ I said, imitating a demented parrot, ‘Polly want some caviar and pay-offs?!’ ‘Rawwwk, Polly needs a polesmoker.’ Damn crackers.

Harold said, “No, I figure they ought to make my NapperCrapper™2012 duh rigeur so that there’d be no more false hopes when one of them springs up spouting honesty and fairness, to the unedicated. Just seeing them in those would be sufficient reminder of the real ventriloquists.”

©Dean J. Baker

BOOKS ON SALE HERE: http://deanjbaker.com

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. All material is covered by international intellectual property laws. All characters are the sole property of ©Dean J. Baker and have been so since 2005-2006. They may not be used in any form. Failure to comply with this will be taken as copyright infringement and plagiarism and acted upon with all and full legal means. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dean J. Baker with appropriate and specific direction to the original content, and the author is informed.

Posted in Cousin Harold, Culture, Family, Humor, Literature, Parenting, Prose Poems | Tagged: , , , | 3 Comments »

Cousin Harold Gets Netted

Posted by deanjbaker on November 18, 2011

Cousin Harold had been rising early to sneak in some coffee, and go upstairs and sit at my desk while he’d peruse the internet.
Away from the troubles outside, the yowling cats and grim-faced neighbors, while his best friend FluffFluff lay snoring downstairs, Cousin Harold would expand his world.

It was on one such May morning that Cousin Harold was checking out various aspects of Facebook, where people added automatic comments to rack up points to no good end, that he came across a multitude of not photos of faces, but pictures of breasts, or bozos as Cousin Harold referred to them, all with a name.

The sweet song of the birds, the drone of lawnmowers in the background, coffee steaming on desk all faded as Cousin Harold slipped into a teenage trance.

“A lot of good this does me now,” he muttered to himself. He pondered offering up his own comment on the photos like ‘will never drown’, ‘what a pair of eyes,’ ‘great personalities,’  before he remembered FluffFluff would see what he’d done later and start scratching at the back of his neck like a demented bird pecking at his skull, and that there’d be no way he could avoid such minding.

Peck, peck. You know what that looks like. Peck, peck. People will think this or that. Peck, peck.
Cousin Harold gave up that thought and returned to the boobies. Oh well, he thought with a sneaking grin, it’s a crazy world.

He was just about to wipe his chin after staring when he heard one of the kitties meowing like it had its paw caught in the door.
Turns out the king of the nest of ne’er-do-wells, Turdburglar, had dragged his limping self back into the backyard after a few months of humping and biting every cat in sight, and peeing on anything not moving.
And those remaining were very afraid.

One second he’d be lazing in the sun softly murmuring the praise of his mother, Mrs. Moe, and the next he’d have jumped, humped and dumped another cat.
All they’d hear would be a soft whistling,’My name is Moe, meowwwww, That’s all I know, meowww, I’m a cat, meowwwwww, and that is that, meowwwww’ and next they’d be gasping for breath and wondering where the prowler had gone.

What technique, thought Cousin Harold.

He thought he’d better take a look in case it was something else, when he suddenly heard human muttering.
That doesn’t sound like FluffFluff. Slippers slapping, and Shirley Temple twittering to the fur faces.

The cats and their progeny had become fairly well known around the neighborhood, especially after one fellow, a few houses down, had remarked, “You didn’t do anything to the cats, did you? I don’t see any of them around.”
Cousin Harold had simply replied, “Hell no, the little bastards are all at our house, Mr.Bill.”

Cousin Harold was almost out of his chair when the words become clearer.. and with a definitively foreign accent.
And speaking to Mr.Spots, his favorite.

“Haw, Meester Spots, you nice kitty. You sit, I pet you, Mister Spots. Here you go, nice cookie. Tell you fortune.”
Cousin Harold thought what the fuck is that noise, and got up to stand over the balcony, very quietly.

The conversation continued.

“Haw, Mister Spots, how you like come for dinnah. Lots food. Mister Spots, you like go restaurant, nice kitty?”

Next thing Cousin Harold heard was a rushed hush of tinkling conversation that sounded like someone conjugating the alphabet backwards.
And then the patter of little feet beating a hurried retreat down the sidewalk.

A door opened downstairs, accompanied by the snap of a lighter, a swift exhale, and the exclamation of “Harold, don’t you gob on these kitties any more! Peegie looks like she’s wearing a coat of arms!”

FluffFluff.

Cousin Harold started to proclaim his innocence when he was interrupted by, “I know you did it! None of these babies climbed up on the rail and started doing it to each other.”

“I was only encouraging them to get off the porch and deposit their fleas elsewhere.”

“Harold! You need to stay off those sites and stop portraying yourself one way or another when you’re a really nice man, and the best looking one there too!”

“Ok, I will.”

“You need to not do that, anymore. Change your habits. Think of progress,” said FluffFluff.

“OK, I said I will.”

“I’m going to kick your ass if you do that and ruin all my hard work of turning you into an admirable human being… not that you weren’t before, but damnit, people are watching!”

“I said ok, you Chatty Cathy. Stop with the Helen Keller act, or you won’t need a hat and you won’t be able to sit down either.”

“Alright….(motherfucker)”

Cousin Harold let out a whiff of protest, went back to his desk, and decided he’d best ensure that no young twenty or thirty, ok even forty somethings, were not losing their way on the internet.

It was the least he could do, while awaiting the next pecking of FluffFluff at his neck,

Tap, tap, tapping at the back of his skull.

Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore.’

©Dean J. Baker
©Dean J. Baker, 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. All material is covered by international intellectual property laws. All characters are the sole property of ©Dean J. Baker and have been so since 2005-2006. They may not be used in any form. Failure to comply with this will be taken as copyright infringement and plagiarism and acted upon with all and full legal means. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dean J. Baker with appropriate and specific direction to the original content, and the author is informed.

Posted in Canadian Literature, Comedy, Humor, Inspiration, Literature, Satire, Society, Women | Tagged: , , , | Leave a Comment »

Dentist

Posted by deanjbaker on November 7, 2011

My former dentist in Toronto is a jackass. He would probably do better
with a jackhammer than a drill.
The dick used to get you in there and have you out in 5 minutes.
No gloves, never wanted to use freezing. Cheap, though – if you didn’t mind going back every 3 weeks because the fucking filling fell out.
Cock.

Reminds me of what my brother Terry said one time when I told him the dentist we’d had as teenagers had died.
“Good, the fucking Nazi prick. Took so many of my teeth… he woulda filled my acne if he could have.”
“Yeh, he was an asshole. Prick put in those fillings on the bottom of my front teeth til I looked like I had little bits of tar stuck to my teeth.”

“Tell me where they buried him, I’m going to go there and shit on his grave, the prick.”
“Yeh, seig heil, Oshitwash.”

Remember though, my brother has volunteered to do this to Trudeau, as well as many other so far un-dead politicians.

The other dentist in Toronto would probably scrape used fillings off the tray and stick those in, along with ceramic, caps, metal fillings.
He never asked to be paid, though. I’d offer him some change like $50 or whatever whenever I thought he was on the point of boiling or looked like he needed some cash. On a few occasions I gave him a few $100’s.
Not my fault. Whenever I’d ask how much, he’d say ‘Oh next time.’
I didn’t know the prick was using my teeth like a crayoning book to fill in the multiple choices, and that eventually I’d need some professional work done, like dentistry.

That brings me to Dr. Rob, in Port Colborne. Expert, nice guy, lovely assistants.
What more could you ask. The best.

I know: hey, Dr. Rob, you think any of those teeth you pull from other patients would fit me?
Shit, now I’m channeling that other doofus.

Oh well, send those along to my former dentist. I’m sure he can use them.
Probably for ear plugs from all the whining and complaining when his other patients’ teeth keep falling out, need to be re-done.

Maybe he ought to change his name to Dr. Tooth.
Hang that shield out there so everyone knows he is a dentist.

What they won’t know, of course, will be the fact that the sign stands for what you’ll have left in your pie-hole when he’s done with you.

©Dean J. Baker
©Dean J. Baker, 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. All material is covered by international intellectual property laws. All characters are the sole property of ©Dean J. Baker and have been so since 2005-2006. They may not be used in any form. Failure to comply with this will be taken as copyright infringement and plagiarism and acted upon with all and full legal means. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dean J. Baker with appropriate and specific direction to the original content, and the author is informed.

Posted in Author, Canadian Poet, Contemporary, Inspiration, Literature, Prose Poems, Satire | Tagged: , , | Leave a Comment »

“Generals Die In Bed”

Posted by deanjbaker on October 11, 2011

no time for diffidence; the dream
of death, ordinary:
and inconvenient, leaving debts
we should have left anyway

those ghosts bleed into history,
thickening everything; the next
step may lead anywhere:
choose carefully with whom you associate

©Dean J. Baker

in admiration of the WW1 book Generals Die In Bed by Charles Yale Harrison
©Dean J. Baker, 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. All material is covered by international intellectual property laws. All characters are the sole property of ©Dean J. Baker and have been so since 2005-2006. They may not be used in any form. Failure to comply with this will be taken as copyright infringement and plagiarism and acted upon with all and full legal means. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dean J. Baker with appropriate and specific direction to the original content, and the author is informed

Posted in Death, Literature, Poet, Self-reliance, Society | Tagged: , , , | 4 Comments »

Limited Edition Books, blurb by Irving Layton

Posted by deanjbaker on September 16, 2011

Limited, Numbered Bookssigned upon request
My first books, in limited editions of 500 copies each with glossy covers, and gold-leaf print on the covers are available at these links. 250 of each  book are numbered.

A quote from Irving Layton, twice nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature, and the man who taught Leonard Cohen and to whom Leonard dedicated his last book, is the blurb and signifies what to expect.

“Dean is a combination of thought and torment that has made him write more than a baker’s dozen of fine poems.. he might produce a collection that could astound us all.” – Irving Layton, who taught Leonard Cohen and to whom Leonard dedicated his latest book, and was nominated twice for the Nobel Prize for Literature, in The Toronto Star
http://deanjbaker.blogspot.com/p/book-reviews.html
Remaining copies can and will be signed upon request. Very easy and secure to order.
The Heraldhttp://deanjbaker.com/theherald.html
Baker’s Bad Boyshttp://deanjbaker.com/bakersbadboys.html
©Dean J. Baker

Posted in Allen Ginsberg, Art, Authors, Bob Dylan, Canadian Literature, Dean J. Baker, Irving Layton, Leonard Cohen, Poetry | Leave a Comment »

 
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