Each Happy Being


Someone broke into my home
last night and took me for granted.
A different kind of robbery, yet
theft nonetheless. You alone now

Would know what is meant, if
not for the happy accident of claiming
possession while being absent,
in the realms of those who love nothing they possess.

(©)Dean Baker

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Gluckifried

These are not your endless meanderings
scratched out to demonstrate
infinite sensitivities
accompanied by filigreed attention, and
focus on details of the inane and stifling
forced potential for what may become
art or a poem by the time you’ve held
your breath long enough to reach
the last line, where

Finally, you are manipulated to admire
minus brevity, wit and revelation
the scope of all earth’s design
described outside the coloring lines
where micro becomes metaphor as
substitute for passion in a static decline
absent rhyme or melody
within a damp wood unable to catch fire
by the sterile and dry

Comprised of butterflies under glass
or tombs discovered at last,
revealing nothing so much as those
who once lived can die again contained
in pages no sarcophagi or papyrus preserves
to teach that mostly what has passed
remains a fine description of itself, and each
who believe such lies truth are confined
in lettered debris and intellectual gas, glorified asses

©Dean Baker

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***not to be mistaken, but I love what Louise Gluck has written – things are great – the problem with her work
is the immensity. I want to experience the best not dedicate a portion of my life discovering it, or others such
as Hardy, Lawrence, Layton etc., through huge tomes: she needs a Selected Poems, much like Szymborska accomplished in
view with a grain of sand

 

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You Is Defiant

If unloved, all privileges and rights
lost and none blink a Cyclopean eye
in the sociopathic façade of pretense

God-fearing assholes who offer help
and a dollar, long as you’ve spent lives
the cost ten times more than any volunteer

Their approach amounts to a belief
that since we’re all going to die, what’re
you going to do sit alone in a room so

Since you’re unoccupied it’s do what
you know you should be slave to, you’re
not busy anyway with no life you should

Not escape otherwise we deserve your help
cause who do you think you are, anyway
being superior to nothing than us simple

Passive bullies of family society Church
Temple or some other dressed-up lie
masquerading as more than nothing, you

Mean you defy us in the name of silence
your self as that huge No, that negative
crutch rules crippling the true Yes away

From the noise and buzz of idiots, morons
who show no idea of who you are, might
become in a living tribute to the dying, dead

And dumb

©Dean Baker

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A coffeehouse, café as society…”Acid wit, deep insight, humor, powerful metaphor, intelligence…. A smooth ride on a bumpy road, with side trips into unseen hollows of the human experience…. What else do you need to know? An excellent read, worth sharing far and wide… More, please….”Prose poems that are a paean to Musicians, Writers, Artists, & Wingnuts: to folksingers, the troubled and disturbed, open mic nights everywhere.”

“The ironies and distinctions that make for unintended humor and discreet or not so discreet satire, as well as the tenderness evoked through an awareness of the frailties and too-human vulnerabilities of the denizens of Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic (all of us)”

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My Vote

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.

©Dean Baker

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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.”

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Banditry

I offer you my hand: you swing
the axe faster than the eye can see

I tell you my love: you wish
me well with these labors in hell

I proffer gifts wise men do not bring:
you refuse permission of such bribes

I kneel down beside you: without enmity,
or attack, you pat me on the back

I accede to your lack of humanity:
you feel my politics are not Third World

I wonder where you find yourself: we
sing and stare, the bare moon our ornament

I know you are there as well: hiding
behind the True, the Good, the Beautiful

©Dean Baker

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*all the books have been re-done – posts are meant for inspiration to own

A NATION OF LUNATICS

 

The anhedonics have it; more pills,
loveless sex, booze and cash, all
forms of coping with the modern world.

Or athletics, politics, religion –
each interchangeable and dependent
upon the credulity of homo sapiens.

Enter the delusion of impending fame,
no less than cosmic significance, and
don’t forget the neighbors’ good opinion.

All this plus an ability to command
weather by temperament, along with
the omnipotent faculty of being bland.

Fueled by money and growing sophistication,
as the level of education sinks:
the picture of a people who cannot think.

©Dean Baker

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“”A bold and refreshing approach to modern poetry, one that breaks the rules when necessary and yet conforms when it suites. Highly recommended…”

”If all the reader is looking for in a poetry anthology are the poetic ramblings of someone trying to impress with their command of language or a gently rolling stream of consciousness then this probably isn’t it; but for poignant and thought provoking insight and new ideas, one would be hard pressed to do better than Dean Baker’s ‘Silence Louder Than A Train.”

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

Pretension Is Violent

Poetry, the
pussy of the intellectual;
the strap-on dick of the female mannequins:
the forum for philosophy
for all the brave cowards

What else might be
done alone, by one like me
facing the great womb
of the universe? Head in heaven
and hell beside, feet
planted standing tall or not at all.

Read the works of assholes
and jerks as if they
did more than make a living?
As if this were not the latest
Invasion of the Gumbies, our
mirror image of oncological ventriloquists.

No wonder, no wonder – each one
won’t play unless it’s toward
that long rest from untended flesh.
Do you then settle for hopeless options? Untested,
sterile sexuality; or go home, dump
a fuck in the wife, and call it your best?

It’s like almost being pregnant, being
a hero in your own backyard; that
is Death: show me your cards. Will
they sell? That’s the word,
make your own world.
I wouldn’t shit you: You’re my favorite turd.

©Dean Baker

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