Where No Kings Reign


I cannot sleep or eat, like
One of Shakespeare’s fools;

Who wants to, when
Your one and only’s gone

I don’t question time, or decay
While sitting out the night;

In your room or mine: two lovers
Traveling towards the light

©Dean Baker

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from… Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic – Babette’s Dance


High water, the sweet grass smoking on the bridge across the traffic, above the Don Mills’ canyon; the thin,
ascetic face pinched beyond the distances that exist no longer.

‘That spinny chick,’ one whispers, angry that Babette took an escape route open only to the solitary few, history now.
Never any escape but a stop-gap, a hole in the ice, broken window on a frozen universe.

Babette rises up to catch the current swept in hidden geographies, the perspective shattered from every boundary; nostrils held
closed against the onset of germ warfare breaking out: no more captive than the breeze upon which she trembles momentarily.

The messages sent and dispensed, in the precious envelope of flesh.

Another success and the glory of triumph, amidst all the silent on-lookers.

What I miss most is not the quiet stillness, nor the crowd of lonely moments,
but the sweetest smile that kept a secret aching to be born.

©Dean Baker

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Prose poems that are a paean to Musicians, Writers, Artists, & Wingnuts: to folksingers, the troubled and disturbed, open mic nights everywhere.

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The Unholy Mess Of Your Consciousness


Every time you point at God, he disappears. At
least it would seem so in the interruption. I believe
he assumes your disguise: penitent, petitioning,
amused guide offering souvenirs of pain and prayer.

God is not a resting upon but a reaching toward
without division between the seeker and the prize,
no hypocrisy is brooked here: if you are the singer you
will be the song, the last note rung out
until you have become indistinguishable and none.

Hold the silence in your tone across the emptiness,
allowing travel among the realms, between
your throat and sound; these immeasurable distances
of space and time, black holes where knowledge dies,
echoing as stars wink on and out in various positions
like border lights
along the boundaries of skin and air, the observed
alterations again of flesh amid the infinites.

You do not stop to praise with diffidence, yet wonder –
your mind and chin tilted at a slight incline,
with no suggestion that you indulge yourself by questioning.

You know God is listening: no difference
between what is now a request, what corresponds as reply.

You are made manifest even as your doubt denies:
with every instant where you stop at rest,
a conscious thought of light will cease and bless.

The unholy mess of your consciousness does not represent
nor constitute any guarantee of diligence, or authenticity.

When you begin again momentarily you know God is listening.

©Dean Baker

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Metaphysical

when the only cure for what ails ya is what fails ya

I went for my metaphysical, the other day. Well, daylight saving though I didn’t have much interest in that, transposition or not from one place to another: the same grace. Said.

The sign read ‘The Doctor Is.’

I went, reminding myself to change that. I saw I came undressed except by notions of this and that: I did not want to Hegel. Okay?

The first patient left, my turn arrived on this portentous carnival ride. I heard the physician cry, ‘Nyet!’ in a tangle of languages where I had once anticipated arrival.

She pushed all my buttons, coughing a smile discreetly as I turned my head in riotous admiration as I left; righted, presenting prematurely the evidence for my denial, or invisibility among other artefacts.

Am I, I asked.

I rectum you’re fine now, she replied.

I knew then the ride was mine, but the circus was another atmosphere in its entirety. That if you take your hand and place it on me to steady yourself I still will not yell Yow, eh.

Be there, anyhow.

The physician’s rag is a flag of surrender, of sweet pink or sad brown: all mixed colors decide on the palette of pride, the deceit of renown.

Famed in your own mind, a non a mist or the precipitates of hyacinth hooves slashing the gravitational field gathering grace along the wide curves of an indistinguishable weight unmeasured by these hinges of eyesight louvering

each different and altered perspective, each word used out of expectation like carnivorous ghosts rippling heat across raised skin of the bodies in this bed of leaves

where night is a diurnal dust, garlands of

delivered semaphores and the entelechy of no trust betrayed, yet loved.

Dr. Dean, at your cervix, I replied.

©Dean Baker

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Anywhere

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

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