Storms coming in, so for days in advance
what you hear are repeated exclamations of
fear and hope. Oh, those poor people standing
on their heads underwater, to which of course
I want to shout Shut the fuck up and teach
them to swim.
Or a winter storm’s arriving, a predicted
inch or 3 of snow and the idiots flood Walmart
stock piling water, asswipe and canned goods, yet
it never arrives and the yapping suddenly stops.
Can they never see themselves, each one
chattering more loudly with greater belligerence,
these new arbiters of taste and prediction.
For the next Pavlovian tidbit when that bell
chimes, the monkeys will all be in agreement,
brought together by their own private
idiocies as each runs and hides, and Chicken Little
once more rules the roost: elected by default again.
Corporations exult at the pinball cash machine, while
all the nervous hens of either sex pullulate and scream.
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Quotes from some Reviews: “The most unique set of poems I have ever read.” “Having read Dark Earth by Dean Baker my first reaction is WOW. This was written for me.”
“Dean is a true comic poet as well, full of those sly interventions and evasions, slights of self, recriminations and elisions… He’s the kind of poet that gets under your skin and stays there like a song in some dark noir alley that sings to you of love and death suckled on good old home-grown truth. Through his exceptional and distinctive poems and prose poems you will be fully engaged…”
“The key to Dean’s art is its unique subtle narration of certain moments that are never revealed in the full natural disclosure of facts, but are rather revealed more subtly in the voicing of certain affective relations between memory and mind in this ongoing inquisition with the sordidness of our unlived lives.”