Each Happy Being

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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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In Its Beginnings

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Every time I show you who I am,
you set me on fire saying Ash is such
a wonderful camouflage against disguise

For the patient kind not seeking to surprise,
love is the ordinary task
of managing consciousness and fine things

With pliers against skin, that velvet sin
no more, you bring me nothing
in the chemical exchange of mysteries

Undefined in our new century, we
map the boundaries unexplored
and fittingly prepare for the next disappearance

To materialize at our door: soliciting
butterflies who applaud our heart,
minus the clumsy contraption of wings

(©)Dean Baker

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

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Unearthly View

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Missing you, I
step off the edge
of routine; constrained, yet

held by boundaries,
the skeleton of this costume,
this envelope of flesh

where I cannot sleep or rest,
almost a dream awake
before the sudden drop

to the flatlands, the crash
soft, epidermal; sloughing off
another season

that may last one more
unmeasured length
against the strength

of daily storms
I contain in unearthly view: amid
too mortal awareness, and remains

©Dean Baker

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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
speculation:
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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from Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic… Adrift In An Ocean Of Imbeciles

Constrained by the easy consensus of cretins, brought down by the borrowings of
boneheads, and held within the grasp of the Holier Than Thou Goobers of limited and
stinking so-called knowledge in their cannibalistic hamster cage of doubt and regret, I hear Dylan croaking,
Crickets are chirping,’ (and the world ends there) ‘the water is high..’
There’s a soft cotton dress..’

And it begins again: the noisy impudent world of opinion unearned and circumstance
contrived by the unconscious who deliberately doubt when there isn’t room for it in this ship
of retards schooled by ease, tormented by impunity, and entertained by that abscess within the cranial fold.

This is Dante’s ninth circle minus the seventh wave, leaching into the pit.

A hill of nightmare, conveyed by broken silences; the sudden rush of abruptly adopted pains,
unplugged and unmitigated by the debt paid out through solitude served to the poor sustaining every temple.

Lead us o factotum, bring us to the river, drop us from the planes of existence – we will make
pictures together as if history was contained in some other foreign, and forgotten weather.

One more chink in the chain, the defeatist gasps, then gasps again for reinforcement.

You always knew what it meant, now and forever.

©Dean Baker

Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic ebook 

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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….”

from * The Man In The Long Black Coat by Bob Dylan, the cd Oh Mercy, Copyright © 1989 by Special Rider Music