This Is How the World Disappears

From one mental defective to another
you bitch and moan and wail in
the most pleasant tones about those who
should be doing this or that, instead
legislating behavior and decency as
far as you know anyway, then

Repeating your motivation’s lost
you can’t get anything done, accomplish
what you really want in a sick consolation
of nosy neighbors blotting out the sun,
perfectly reconciled to adjusting
the expectations you have of others

While taking refuge in idle talk, gossip
of the lazy and incompetent designed
to justify the false desires of wishing to hire
some laborer and pay for the work more
easily done than complained of, draining
good will, patience and perspective

Of anyone unfortunate enough to be listening

©Dean Baker

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*all the books have been re-done – *****posts are meant for inspiration to own***** books: Dean Baker’s books on Amazon


The past is longer than the future can be. Winters
are now limited, as are the beautiful mild and temperate
days of May.
My personal calendar has switched from notching months or weeks.
Years now represent decades. All the holidays fade toward permanent vacation.
Nothing of bad measure becomes an unexpected surprise.

Wild women or forward men are no longer even incidents
that did not happen to another. Society itself has become
an idiot child, pablumed and cooing, diaper full.
Money a wish for more than less, waning with it the
benefits of better health and food, less stress, even friends.

You know who’s speaking, should you so choose.
Under that snow, poised for flight; that pile of clothes, the vanished
take refuge in plain sight among the fiercely knowledgeable.

Look closely. They leave nothing whether they remain, or go.

©Dean Baker

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Limbo: Stasis

Limbo now is not a dance
the dangling participle no entrance
suggestive of sex or science

or language masticated by the toothless
but too much exile
waiting for the light of the world

to atom blast your face
against the concrete realities
overwhelming everything by

the Babel feast of lost stories of innocence
as if that were a gift, a credit at
the merchant store of false narratives

of success over the one slice
dimensional forces
spewing forth a dialogue

in a broken tongue neither you nor I
anymore wish to speak or learn
or eat

or kiss anyone with such a device
good only for swallowing tripe
so that we could endlessly

repeat again
lives led in slaughter and denial
our white hats smothering

what occurs
while we tightrope walk across the abyss
to a music made by monsters

©Dean Baker

©All Rights Reserved


You can be murdered anywhere, but
you’ll always die in Congress or in Parliament.

From a lack of care or indifference
to what’s said and done by everyone expecting
salvation be a ladder to Paradise, until
the stairs to another life declining repair
prove they lead nowhere but upside down.

Change will come eventually you think,
forgetting the war ongoing in everything
where slaughter is observed religiously,
statistics carved in counterfeit
register complaint surreptitiously proud.

To serve the perverted ego’s lazy appetite
for the curve of constancy, no matter what
it takes to frame familiar certainty:
mistaken for the truth still boasting loudly
for release from the cage of incessant proof.

In our recalcitrant lives something despairs,
training us for extinction as the prize.

©Dean Baker


*all the books have been re-done – *****posts are meant for inspiration to own***** books: Dean Baker’s books on Amazon

©All Rights Reserved