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


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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from Silence Louder Than A Train… 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

*Anhedonia: Loss of the capacity to experience pleasure. The inability to gain pleasure from normally pleasurable experiences. Anhedonia is a core clinical feature of depression, schizophrenia, and some other mental illnesses.

https://deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com/2020/09/27/anywhere/

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

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paperback: – Silence Louder Than A Train  

“”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’sSilence Louder Than A Train.

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Ventriloquists

shadow1

The ventriloquists are upset
I do not respond as they wish
after all they’re family, since

I do not say I love this place
I fail to speak words of consolation

Empathetic phrases won’t arise
unless I choke

With what I do not tell them
they are full of doubt
while I dine on emptiness

We starve for differing reasons

I must learn again the choice of
neither battle nor broken bone

That my song offers food, and
wine of everything that is true

Not this xylophone registering
the flat tones
of dust amid the chorus of ghosts

©Dean Baker

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Dark Earth  – “Rabelais and Hieronymus Bosch look out of dark chinks in these poems…”…’‘The most unique set of poems I have ever read…

Silence Louder Than A Train – ‘Highly recommended…’‘”… one would be hard pressed to do better…’‘”…savagely introspective..”

’‘Dean’s books will someday be required reading…” 

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A Tourist Observing Ruins


This house is so broken,
with the images
of what might have been;
the last experiment
a scientist’s shattered facilities,
a chemical residue

There is no cure for what
you think of tomorrow:
the hero in northern absences,
abandoned on an R.C.M.P post; perhaps
dying of tuberculosis in Rome,
longing to say ‘I did return’

While you and I are two guests
in the burned-out town,
survivors open to investigation;
departing into no sudden sunsets,
amid this most ordinary life:
of quarrels, and lovers gone

©Dean Baker

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NEW BOOKS: Shadow Boxing The Infinite, Phantoms Of The Northern Forests, The New Poetry Hotel

 

The Myth Of Liberation


You became the man
you always wanted to marry
I could not long for you
as the woman you tried to bury
Now there are no choices
open anywhere,
in mangers or in stables

So you join the women’s club
with their venom to feel as one; among
the defeminized angels of love,
abandoning even the sacred heart
you mean to carry in the dark:
perhaps forever, Joan of Arc,
that would not still the many voices

©Dean Baker

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Priced Out of Existence

This used to be my city that had
not become a Third World country
where I’d fail to classify immigrants
by their methods or prospects
for wielding murder amid damages

I would walk past midnight, unarmed
except for poetry and my guitar,
mobile from Bloor St. to Queen
past 2 am for the streetcar, no thoughts
given to congregations of assholes

Offers of women, drugs and other lies
laid out within the singular subway,
the medium for contrary ways of
contained assault: the coward commuters,
guilty bystanders crouched in conquest

Bridges leading nowhere, streets desolate
within the borrowed dark of my clothes,
democracy reduced to ashes grown cold, now
crowded into holes, not given the prearranged
barbed-wire of overthrow, we don’t speak

Beyond whispers of utility, of anarchy
and assassinations that amount to nothing
but statistics of ghosts where none yet tell
amid the lifting winds stirring well,
welcome now to my neighbors in this hell

Soon, soon you will know the ringing
of the bell

©Dean Baker

‘Poetry that is classic and timeless.’

Petty Gods Of Apparent Decline ebook

‘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/

©All Rights Reserved

© deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com