There’s the poet making a virtue of poverty.
Studying St. Francis. Reading Dark Night Of The Soul. The Upanishads. Select Sufi texts. Christmas Humphrey’s book. Making a trip or ten to the University downtown to compare ancient Greek with modern Greek and Latin, alongside Italian in translations of Greek poetry, Virgil and Homer, Biblical passages, etc.
Nodding to John Robert Columbo. Saying hello to Archilochus, Dante.
Maybe 17. Maybe a little more.
Sneaking onto public transport, skipping off high school. Traveling to Miami in Winter in the backseat of a car while the radio sparks music out of the Southern nights.
Back again into the parent’s place. Playing in bands. Rock, soul, blues. Saving working money from penny poor jobs.
Chasing that special loneliness across the sky into Vancouver. An innocent in the works where men stared at the local Y.
Jumped down that hill into a slovenly hotel room in Gastown. A jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread in the drawer. Nourishments.
Adding himself onto the ragtag end of protest marches consisting of wandering hobos, and loose women: he hoped.
The skid row hotel almost Victorian. High ceilings, wide hallways. Human refuse in this anteroom to the next life. The outside world wanders in carefully where he would not normally go, alert that to see was to be seen. Danger lurked of some kind.
Somebody’s ass exploded one day. An excremental vision that left bits of hyper clarity splattered across the ceiling, walls, and thrown over mortality.
A shit fit.
The maid walks toward her destiny. The Poet leans casually against a corner awaiting her revelation.
“I’m not doing it! If they expect me to clean that, I quit!”
“They had a Shit Fit! Crap everywhere!”
Like Picasso and Pollock decided against the world’s taste, ready to hop that Marcel DuChamp artwork and pedal off to Alfred Jarry’s pet crocodile whom they’d admire against its refusal to become shoes and handbags, while steering clear of the great work on a small stage of Antonin Artaud’s Theatre Of Cruelty.
O, I am Ubu Roi. Pschitt! to all of this, with a smile.
Same for the Poet. Scooting across the bay to Victoria. Finding a meal, a bed, companionable company.
55 degrees across the ocean. 72 degrees there.
His message: in a bottle. Across oceans, eons. Countries. Generations. Absent friends, and the labor of centuries.
Youth, and health being measured out.
- excerpt from Blood Upon The Moon, 132 pages, $14.99, buy it AND MAKE IT YOUR OWN
- https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM – enjoy my books!
these excerpts are to encourage you to buy a book, thanks – some say I shouldn’t ask, but they get paid, don’t they – be supportive, we don’t live by ‘likes’
****for those unfamiliar with poetry, I’d recommend buying this book – my best selling, award winning book DARK EARTH 142 pages, 14.99, as an entry point to my work
Provenances And Paroles 128 pages, 13.99