from The Mythologies Of Love… ‘Circle Of Destiny’


 

 

 

 

 

 

I thought I would escape death,
if I loved you well and long enough.

I would answer to his pride; conceal myself,
within the monuments of fleshy deceit.

I saw our kitten curl into question
marks that defined my helplessness.

How could you love me when I betrayed
by my selfishness your plan for immortality?

I had always tried to be good, being afraid:
You said I only wished to avoid living.

I knew I had failed to provide illusion.
I stepped outside the circle of applause,
I joined the cowards in the audience.

They were transformed into painted, wooden faces.
I wouldn’t mind much consenting to die.

I refuse the list of trivialities; the stakes
always high for those who would philosophize.

I will not accept slavery as my model
for spiritual and material transcendence.

Religion is anathema to God made manifest.

Now that we have fouled the bed of marriage, let’s not
pamper our vulnerabilities with relationships.

© Dean Baker

-excerpt from The Mythologies Of Love, 90 pages, only $14.99

http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

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from Of Flesh Sculptures And Abandoned Love… ‘Life On Other Planets’


 

 

 

 

 

 

In the house I supposedly own, someone broke in
the other night and took me for granted. I felt
no alarm or fright since it had gotten to be
quite a familiar habit. Whoever it was used
my chair, drank my wine, smoked my cigarettes,
then fell asleep at my desk after having composed
some poems I couldn’t possibly recognize as my own.

Later when he awoke I noticed nothing missing, though
things such as my notebooks, books, and even guitars
had been rearranged. My clothes undisturbed, my shoes
and boots lined up like soldiers at attention.
The cat remained curled, the woman fast asleep –
as far as they could tell there’d been no change at all,
the discovery of life on other planets a dream.

I sat outside near the cypress tree watching the stars’
light finally reach me, though my name was not called.
I felt a shadow fall, standing startled to see it
lean against the wall offering a silent conspiracy:
a secret knowledge I must learn to inhabit. Undone
by a score of lessons learned, I knew nothing again
before I could burn in my hidden solitude.

Who would stop at nothing would forever persist –
returning travelers rejoicing knew this, as I did
yet would regret and repent what I could refuse
to experience; any number of mouths and lips, whispering
in a different language than daylight, bringing those
things already known which, before I look too close:
I look away from into the nearest distance I chose.

© Dean Baker

my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

https://www.facebook.com/DeanJBaker

 

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from a forthcoming book… ‘Transcendent’


 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s no ordinariness everywhere,
nothing as casual as it appears;
apparently if you can talk and wish,
you can be anything you want –
pundit, scholar, so-called expert
whose narrow focus burns ants but doesn’t
notice the building
falling in, nor abnormal growth
upon his toes

Wearing skin, quoting Shakespeare
from old King Cole’s notes; making
a blasphemous joke
by repetitiously echoing the secondary,
as though full cut-throat songs
jumped out of the blue
from paper-sliced thumbs fiddling

Tapping tunes and melodies
upon ribcage xylophones, infinity displaced;
and glory, sic transit mundi
it’s another work week, the
calendar of days and seasons unraveling:
a personal digital rolodex
ticking like some unknown terrorist’s bomb

©Dean Baker• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

https://www.facebook.com/DeanJBaker

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Beyond


 

 

 

 

 

In exile, made
immobile while getting closer
to the flat earth’s ledge,
this life circumscribed
by the poverty of circumstance, absent

Friends or family
with whom to speak, there’s none
who know my name
who’d ascribe value, beyond
what they in their belonging bring

My thoughts empty as stones
thrown, as those who sit cramped
and small, uninvited
to the world they own, while
in this wealth of discipline

Where no one is listening, I am
allowed all the difference
in our ritual of becoming more clean
than the beauty observed
which I must always leave again

In this drowned kingdom we inhabit,
where the detritus of lives seem
to float by without reverence
or disgust, we are swimmers to the
outer planets in praise of silences between

©Dean Baker• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

https://www.facebook.com/DeanJBaker

 

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The Impoverishment of Fecaliths, or Take Your Medecine


 

 

 

 

 

 

All this incessant chatter in regards
to storms, floods, hurricanes, tornadoes
in Texas, Florida, the Carolinas doesn’t say
you can make it as long as you’re not
poor; otherwise, be a hero
not a victim of socialized government, that
blue-dress devil taking away
your vaunted independence, plucking out
eyes, ripping limbs and tossing discussion
like kites into trees riding the waves

Until you cannot believe this isn’t 1776
without progress from hypnotized ideology,
where the idea is of greater consequence
than any claim chewed on for centuries
so we must have cerebral febrilities
masquerading as application when sick, unable
to do anything much by the limiting power
of low wages, you must remain constrained
be vulnerable, perhaps die
maybe lose everything, the ability to enjoy

Because the idle elite of whom you alone
are the greater portion discuss
meaning, how to grant
what’s already your own, untrusting each
not to become flea or tick
upon the corpse of the body politic, while
you save yourself or are helped
by neighbors absent ideas of how or why
who are not chanting
uselessly, ‘Dragons and hurricanes and storms, Oh my!’

©Dean Baker• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM- 

https://www.facebook.com/DeanJBaker

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from The Lost Neighborhood… ‘Labor/Labour’


 

 

 

 

 

 

I had long labored
under the self-imposed
delusion
regarding your beauty

You were prey
and I wove
a fascinating stain
much admired for its tapestry

The deft touch
of symmetry, the
hint of pain
the illusion of transparency

I wrote
the landscape, broken
shattered trees
for the sheer possibility

Dead things gathered
obviously, reminding
that glory
is the medium of strange

And now
you sit there touching yourself
close in the distances
we inhabit again

©Dean Baker• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM- 

https://www.facebook.com/DeanJBaker

-execerpt from The Lost Neighborhood, 78 pages, $11.99 “Required reading for anyone wanting to learn about wit, wordplay, and good, gritty writing in general. Dean Baker knows how to turn a phrase upside down and kick it full strength out the door. Five stars, and here’s to many more…” “What more powerful a statement can a poet express than “the word is not the thing,” one of Baker’s titles. This alone points to the depth of the hand that scribes words that point, words that depict, words that make real, what we all feel.”

 

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from In Riparian Fields…. ‘What Is Equal To Water’


 

 

 

 

 

 

I eat beauty, dine on waves of divinity –
not what the crass slaves of circumstance
encircled by their own introspection
determine, where sometimes I masticate
and chew,
sometimes swallow whole the evidence until
the deed is fully absorbed, transformed

the riding free on invention, no intent held
to repay a debt I’m borne into, yet an
appreciation, distillation of gratitude: the mine of
driven wind tossing
leaf confetti from trees as they too surrender
their dying children to a better place
where ghosts assume no friendly or hostile face

net neutrality is all it’s cracked up to be,
wishing only to consume; turn you from
your station on a path across entire galaxies,
stars that I nibble on, take a bite of the apple, the
ganglia and pride gone into something else
entirely now, a quick universe of inside and out not
to reaffirm but choose

to perform the uselessly appearing journey over,
and out, repeatedly awake until I feel my skin, its
tingling from the burn of how you brushed
against me one time and worlds were formed, or
brought into being which I do not debate,
simply
embraced and embracing now what I will always say

©Dean Baker• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM- 

https://www.facebook.com/DeanJBaker

excerpt from In Riparian Fields, 162 pages, $16.99

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from Silence Louder Than A Train… ‘The Person Who Owns My Fingerprints’


 

 

 

 

 

 

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
Earth frozen this way, the snow trackless
It’s so cold, my breath escapes, giving me
Away: I’m still here, I must confess again

©Dean Baker

• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM- 

https://www.facebook.com/DeanJBaker

photo is of Silence Louder Than A Train, 102 pages, $14.99

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from a forthcoming book… ‘Killer Addicts’


 

 

 

 

 

 

I witness your concern over opioids, those
synthetic gods of bliss and the absence
of suicidal pain; where you announce you’re
at war again, and of course it’s winnable,
saying not a word against idiot doctors,
prescribing too little or too much, and the lords
of the rapacious drug companies

In the same way you misdirect, thus confuse
reality for your construct, empathy
towards nicotine levels in tobacco which
you’re not against since you want to allow
the businesses to put in lower levels
so they can boost the price on those products
with more saint nicotine, increasing taxes

Your revenue as usual favoring the few,
eluding the many with confabulistic bullshit
disguising truth with the fog of studies, debate
and statistics manipulated; yet hell, an ordinary
dog is smarter and more honest in its life,
not to mention wise since it won’t lie to itself
about the foreign turd in the home-made stew

You regenerates brew who have every modern
miracle at hand that you’ll never originate,
or can begin to plan; what you do is create piles
of detritus to maintain the industry of managers,
as long as others might be fed:
in the unidentified sacrifice by which I recognize
the real and true killer addicts of unmentioned economies

©Dean Baker

  • from a forthcoming book

• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM- enjoy

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from The Lost Canadian, Vol.1, Early Poems Selected… ‘Song For Jenny’


 

 

 

 

 

 

Mad-
ness hums in my ear,
like a fly
that’s caught there.

I can’t touch you.
This is
the new ballet.
I can’t touch you.

Stay away,
I am deaf with silences.
Splintered and shining,
I go down like a stone.

©Dean Baker

-excerpt from The Lost Canadian, Vol.1, Early Poems Selected 112 pages, $14.99….first published in Northern Light.. photo is of Guelph, Ontario railway station

• my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM- buy one, do yourself a service 🙂

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