Dr. Dean: The Interview

Reprinted here is an interview with Dr. Dean, Poet Laureate. He was interviewed by the ghost of Mother Teresa.

Mother Teresa: Namaste, Mr. Dean
Dr. Dean: First, it’s Dr. Dean, and I’m curious about that word. Na –mahs, te. Is that like lazily saying Nah, must have tea?
Mother Teresa: It means blessings upon you, to me.
Dr. Dean: How about just forking over $1000.00? That would be a blessing.
Mother Teresa: Oh no (giggling), that is the material world. I do not deal in that.
Dr. Dean: That would explain why you’re a fucking ghost.
Mother Teresa: We do not make that distinction between the spiritual and material worlds, though we can recognize the distinction.
Dr. Dean: You don’t think it’s necessary after all this time? I mean, look what happened to Gandhi, ML King, John Lennon. And then of course you, although you did not gain any significant spiritual awards say like Lenin, by not decomposing. You must have been a real blight on the sense of smell for those few days.
Mother Teresa: Oh yes, by golly. My followers had a difficult time. It was a test to strengthen their spirit, and detach them from the world of needs requiring pleasant things.
Dr. Dean: Well no doubt you were a banquet of reassurance in that department.
Mother Teresa: Well, yes, humble as I am. I was. But we are not here to praise me, we are here to acknowledge that your poetry is gaining great significance in the spiritual world.
Dr. Dean: Shit, I knew that – ever since I started writing. Problem is you fucking ghosts don’t carry any cash.
Mother Teresa: It is true.. We are raised above our origins in dust, and have joined totally with the Spirit.
Dr. Dean: That doesn’t help me. You, in your Pledge rags, championing a higher world, won’t buy my books, or peace of mind.
Mother Teresa: Perhaps you need to express a greater sense of gratitude so Grace may be visited upon you.
Dr. Dean: If she shows up at the door, the wife is going to pitch a fit.
Mother Teresa: Oh no, no. The blessings of Grace, from the Spirit.
Dr. Dean: I experienced that! Hallelujah.
Mother Teresa: No! I mean the spirit.
Dr. Dean: I mean the spirit, too, you bundle of Goodwill discards.
Mother Teresa: Now, no need to become rude, I am here to help. To acknowledge your greatness.
Dr. Dean: I have people acknowledge my greatness every day. They say I inspire them, they love my work, all that good bullshit. But it’s rare they buy the books, the cheap bastards.
Mother Teresa: But you are reaching them where it counts. Spiritually. You are blessing them where it counts.
Dr. Dean:(raises his leg) I’ll bless’m alright if they don’t buy some books.
Mother Teresa: What do books matter if you cannot reconcile your great poetry with spirit in this world?
Dr. Dean: Hey Tessy, are you retarded? Books bought equal notice equal more attention which equals myself earning some focking moolah to keep body and spirit together.
Mother Teresa: I did fine while alive. I kept spirits high. I served the people.
Dr. Dean: Good for you, granny. You mentored holy cows, and when a complaint was lodged about the stink and the filth and the flies in keeping said cows in apartment blocks, you responded with great humor, “Well, the cow will just have to get used to it.”
Cow flops became Frisbees, fire starters, and birthday cakes. No one asked, what is this shit.
Now that’s evolvement. Get comfortable with crap to prove your higher being.
Mother Teresa: You are so nasty.
Dr. Dean: Stop with the compliments, you handbag.
Mother Teresa: Is nothing sacred to you? You are getting on my nerves, as they say.
Dr. Dean: Why don’t you chow down on some cow burger – 100% Pure Beef Poo – and join me in the world of poverty.
Mother Teresa: By golly gosh. You are disturbing my holy self.
Dr. Dean: Well, wait a minute. Now I get complaints from ghosts? Hey, listen, I had some burger before you arrived. I can share.
Mother Teresa: Oh alright, it would not be a sin since I am holy.
Dr. Dean: Hey me too, ya old tart. Come closer and I will share.
Mother Teresa’s billowy ghost leans over towards Dr. Dean. At which point, he raises his leg, lets go a ripper, and exclaims: I bless you! Eat that, it’s spiritual!
Mother Teresa: By gosh, by golly! The Devil has come to get me, I am dying!
Dr. Dean: You say you’re done with the main course? Want an appetizer?
The same earlier scene is repeated, resulting in the swift disappearance of the ghost of Mother Teresa.
Dr. Dean is heard exclaiming: Buy my books, or when I’m all spirit, I’m going to be all spirit all over you and your legion of Robed Rejects.
A cloud of dust erupts and the voice of Mother Teresa in a weak tremor can be heard fading into the distance: ‘I am spiritual. I am so spiritual. I will be spiritual. By golly gosh, that bastard farted on my Holiness! Oh world , is nothing sacred.’

©Dean Baker

excerpt from Tormenting The Monkeyhttps://www.amazon.com/Tormenting-Monkey-Dean-J-Baker/dp/1514871963

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All These Carusos

All the internet’s a raised eyebrow, a smug look
and Caruso singing me, me, me, o solo mio,
remedial bumblers attempting insight, declaring
themselves non-carriers of blight and stuck,
vituperative non-entities trumpeting their lies
as insight because they never look for themselves

where they’d confide hey that came out seemingly
alright, struck a chord of similarities by those
who peruse the profound in an instant, now
decoratively stating this is right, nothing else shall
suit us or we fall off the edge of this flat earth
we’ve contrived where everything known remains in sight

with all the Carusos gargling vowels and turning
trite the trivial flickering lights above themselves
mistaken for halos, spitting out blurbs as history
alters course for their lack of right or wrong
balanced upon who welcomes, who might refuse:
each mules the drug they claim not to recognize at all

©Dean Baker

-from Steel Butterflies

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Just Want

Some cream in my coffee whenever
I might wake from
sleep of which I cannot think

No fucked-up minds inquiring
before death and sickness fail
to step aside for the new beginning

If you notice that I have
nothing to say to you, you know
it’s because you never listen

But interrupt in your only constancy
these things evident
of whatever truth you contend against

©Dean Baker

-from Shadow Boxing The Infinite   – on sale

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The P.C. Eats My Brain

The P.C. eats my brain,
the corpses in the living-room
nod awake: another nerve expires.

I do not complain.
Such fantasies of doom
fail to aid the other liars.

You think you are satisfied
with what’s electric; your city
friends, and their mutual hatred.

This is no more than
few rise to it, though you try.

Pull back the covers: even
your skeleton stays
cold and still and naked.

©Dean Baker

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“Dean is a combination of thought and torment that has made him write more than a baker’s dozen of fine poems.. he might produce a collection that could astound us all.” – Irving Layton, (“Canada’s greatest poet”- Leonard Cohen), nominated twice for the Nobel Prize for Literature.

On Many Mornings

There were mornings
I said I will see it through
I cannot give in
that being an idea you had

I took refuge in books and women
My consolation led me nowhere
I was utterly lost
I am back baking bread in the kitchen

When you come to this
As no doubt you will
Remember everything you wanted
Consider how to kill

©Dean Baker

The Mythologies Of Love

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“Dean is a combination of thought and torment that has made him write more than a baker’s dozen of fine poems.. he might produce a collection that could astound us all.” – Irving Layton, (“Canada’s greatest poet”- Leonard Cohen), nominated twice for the Nobel Prize for Literature.

In The Land Of The Blind, You Must Exorcise Daily

There are those women and men whose observation
consists in an exaggeration, a statement made
by which they stand and proclaim that any logic,
any slight chance of disagreement betrays:
no affinity between you and I, none now or again

You have challenged my throne, knave or fool
you must begin to earn the abasement which I
endured, for ages even though
on the way you’re ex deus machina, and such
certainty invites the hallucination I dare not

Speak nor entertain, thus remaining yours alone –
shadow puppet to a fate abandoned long ago, phantom
noises echoing endlessly down those empty corridors

From which you strive to stray, limning the pain
the chalk efflorescence tainted now marking
the crime for which you stand in, whose safety
in abandonment eventually
you make haste to escape before it becomes memory

©Dean Baker


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Illegal immigrants are dangerous. They rob, they rape,
they cheats, they spreads disease.

They make committees who do not keep their words,
they make beehives for us to work. When things get
worse they stretch their reach in the name of charity,
they shrinks our heads in the name of territory: they say
look, there’s gold, pick that up for me and make a
slave. Then all you know, knowing nothing, is no doctor
or book can cure your sore ass, your bent knees, the
ravages of some disease tearing up by degrees.

They make soup kitchen charities like Al Capone, no
mercy to those they know: murder is the treaty known,
don’t look, don’t plead, slaughter is your fortune told.

They impose high ideals and low defeats, always
something you must live up to, invoking religion or
some other big smoke choked with lies and fantasies.

You beat yourself, you beat the neighbor, you beat
the world and rail for some savior who’s asleep in
the cold under blankets of disease uncontrolled. You
stroll and bleed, you ache to please, you wish to climb
some Texas tower to eliminate monsters in your sleeps.

For relief some goodwill, some perfume, some visions
made of the unreal rich and famous: celebrity’s my aim,
fame the game away from the swollen ego which lacks
a discipline to create yet cannot speak but in clichés.

They cannot accept their nature, thus no apologies
unless too late for the party favors. They do not wish
to know for what they weep, for what they stage
until much later comes as an idea: the ideal to which
they pleads guilty, now get on with it, stranger.

This is them, that is me, which is you, confess your
hatred, your special inability.

Illegal immigrants from countries known and blamed,
we are them they are we, this is the danger.
Illegal immigrants from house and home, from isles
of sorrow and unknown responsibilities:

this is us, illegal immigrants making dust of dirt and bones.

Illegal immigrants are dangerous, ask any Indian, inquire of any native.

©Dean Baker

‘Poetry that is classic and timeless.’

‘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 https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/

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