Don’t look, she says
Look please, her clothes say

I’ll look, maybe stare anyway
Just to make sure it’s okay

If it’s a yes, or no today –
I am that considerate I say

©Dean Baker

FEATURE EBOOK OF THE WEEK  2.99 US, 2.21 GBP,  2.69 EURO, $3.99 Canadian The Mythologies Of Love ebook

 for Ebook link The Mythologies Of Love   $4.99

 The Mythologies Of Love paperback    $9.99       $6.99

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the splintering thrust and creak, broken
from the same streak of would or could
strains belief in this invisibility, where

to be legitimate is found wanting, an absence
of ability to succumb or achieve surcease
something beyond either thought or speech

almost anxiety stretched close
over the skeleton of hope and peace, but
there’s no mercy in mortal injury sustained

repeatedly minus the instrument
broken open against the grain, its own
ammunition the savior

from the Frankenstein labors of a foreign brain

©Dean Baker

from Petty Gods Of Apparent Decline ebook

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my books on Amazon


“An inspired set of poems. Dean gets to the essence of a subject.”


Retrieve my spirit
Cleanse my soul
Of what is lost
To my control

Take from me
What I don’t know
Show me gently
Here’s the road

Return to me
My shining mind
Wash from me
The stain of time

Lead me to that delight
Which holds no prisoners
Once again
At end of night

©Dean Baker

from The Lost Neighborhood, $3.99 ebook

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Turd Time In Toytown

for all the Lilliputians

I was plagued by an uneasy feeling; of jealousy, and vindictiveness, of petty-minded
blood-letting that seemed to only ease when I let go of things, as I’d been counseled throughout the years.
I released myself from any enmity and decided to have a talk with my antagonist.

He lay there, all brown and jealous; insouciantly lazing against the bowl, resembling that cigar he liked to chomp between his teeth as if to imply toughness and a hard-scrabble life lived beyond parameters anyone else could understand.

Still, the stink remained; but it being part of him, he could not truly fathom the depths I would ensure he’d experience before too long.

Turdboy, I said, why do you even bother? Poetry should mean, and be.

I can’t help it, he replied. I need attention. I’m so desperate and jealous at my own inferiority that I need to converse on an equal basis with such as yourself.
Thus I make pretenses at achieving this or that. I write what these days is accepted as poetry by a few who don’t know better, who don’t have a sense of history beyond our vaunted narcissism.
You know, who accept my position in the conjugation of vowels much the same way someone who reads the paper believes they can also think viably and with a possibility towards advancement.
As if they had an actual opinion amidst the fumes.

Unaware of his fate, or actual position in the universe, he lay there; wanting to believe he was at least someone’s nemesis.

You’re the king in an esthetic lack of proportion, I said. You are as much the symptom as the disease.
Look at all those scribblers, whiners, hallucinating poetry and the avoidance of that deep freeze.

So you, and they, sacrifice self-awareness, and stick to the rim of life. Rather to be a stain than an honest anonymous character who is real and true.

Thus you write, you’re mean, you arsewipe your verses onto what’s clean and has a history. You spread your stink as you backstab and gossip, cling to what’s good as if you could accomplish anything.
More jealous than most, more vain and useless than your own ghost.

And so you remain forever; no hope of changing, growing, or ever causing anything decent or memorable: merely of showing the precious smell and decay you champion in your shiterature.

Ahhhh, I’m published I can hear them shouttttttt….

I flushed the fraud away in a vortex and frenzy of belligerent, unintelligible demands for equality.

©Dean Baker

from Tormenting The Monkey $3.99 ebook “The monkey knows, but understands nothing

No sacred cows in this long-awaited and in demand collection of satiric meditations on everything and everyone from politics, family, social issues, cultural and individual misconceptions…

being that the ‘monkey’ loves to torment itself with things it already knows and enjoys the disconnect between what it knows and refuses to learn, repeatedly.”

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Priced Out of Existence

This used to be my city that had
not become a Third World country
where I’d fail to classify immigrants
by their methods or prospects
for wielding murder amid damages

I would walk past midnight, unarmed
except for poetry and my guitar,
mobile from Bloor St. to Queen
past 2 am for the streetcar, no thoughts
given to congregations of assholes

Offers of women, drugs and other lies
laid out within the singular subway,
the medium for contrary ways of
contained assault: the coward commuters,
guilty bystanders crouched in conquest

Bridges leading nowhere, streets desolate
within the borrowed dark of my clothes,
democracy reduced to ashes grown cold, now
crowded into holes, not given the prearranged
barbed-wire of overthrow, we don’t speak

Beyond whispers of utility, of anarchy
and assassinations that amount to nothing
but statistics of ghosts where none yet tell
amid the lifting winds stirring well,
welcome now to my neighbors in this hell

Soon, soon you will know the ringing
of the bell

©Dean Baker

‘Poetry that is classic and timeless.’

Petty Gods Of Apparent Decline ebook

‘Vital, intense and uncompromising – singular in clarity, artistry, and authenticity.’

‘Work which illuminates as it informs – a reviving sense of discovery and perspective.

my books on Amazon

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Casting Runes Consisting Of The Landscape

Born a second time on stones, over
grown cold and rough; stunted
self-regarding souls
bare moss hung on the indeterminate
hillside, while above or below, world

Carries on, you wake no longer weightless
unloved, at most a familiar comfort
paralyzed or a ghost unseen; invisible,
deluged by complaints,
groaning over the abyss, its larger unwillingness

To hold onto anything you celebrate,
polishing the bones
of flesh hieroglyphs telling the same
story: casting runes consisting of the landscape,
to witness, or map, never enough

©Dean Baker

©All Rights Reserved

Made Manifesto

Apparently, God sits outside, next
to the patio table; broad-stroking flies
with his demonic paddle, verbal
admonitions and goodwill aside: whack!

‘good night’ whack! ‘next’ as more flies
arrive, curious about
those who’ve been sacrificed, believing
themselves safe or deserving as the procession

arrives, soon to be annihilated
Whack! whack! whack! Howdy, Pilgrims –
as meanwhile through the senescent crush

bodies squashed
and maimed, thanks to Hollywood and Main

hope pervades

©Dean Baker

©All Rights Reserved

my books on Amazon


“An inspired set of poems. Dean gets to the essence of a subject.”