Circle Of Destiny


I thought I would escape death,
if I loved you well and long enough.

I would answer to his pride; conceal myself,
within the monuments of fleshy deceit.

I saw our kitten curl into question
marks that defined my helplessness.

How could you love me when I betrayed
by my selfishness your plan for immortality?

I had always tried to be good, being afraid:
You said I only wished to avoid living.

I knew I had failed to provide illusion.
I stepped outside the circle of applause,
I joined the cowards in the audience.

They were transformed into painted, wooden faces.
I wouldn’t mind much consenting to die.

I refuse the list of trivialities; the stakes
always high for those who would philosophize.

I will not accept slavery as my model
for spiritual and material transcendence.

Religion is anathema to God made manifest.

Now that we have fouled the bed of marriage, let’s not
pamper our vulnerabilities with relationships.

©Dean Baker

 for Ebook link The Mythologies Of Love   

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  • do check Amazon prices as they often have them on sale at excellent discounts –

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from Petty Gods Of Apparent Decline… Phuque


Fuck politics, news and our bullshit culture –
liars, thieves and one-trick ponies,
people dumb enough to rent space in their heads
to the corrupt in literature and academia

Congratulate themselves on disinterest, an
endless tribute to Helen Keller
wallowing in the logorrheic effluvia that passes
for praised independence never experienced

The whirlwind dust corporate
sway, plague of lust as such become
customary hope and prayer:
flag of the stupid few always for sale where

Power, greed and contrivance ever rule
amongst the egotist diviners of nothing new

©Dean Baker

latest e-books $5.99, Shadow Boxing The Infinite

https:// Phantoms Of The Northern Forests Steel Butterflies The New Poetry Hotel

click photo for Ebook link – $5.99 Petty Gods Of Apparent Decline ebook – ***122 pages*** – Buy This Book & Enjoy

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.’

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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 Monkey

$3.99 e-book

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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

©All Rights Reserved


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 

Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic paperback   

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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

I Used To Loiter Endlessly

I haven’t felt good forever
I’m not going to tell you about it
outside the realms of poetry
and the women
plus the rhythms of music, there
isn’t actually anyone who cares
to hear the sad dystopian tale
of an artistic loneliness since you
decided we share the same problem
but separately

not all of this could be known
not all of this could be known together
not any of this would be shown
by the solitary sharing
the fact that somewhere along
the way
a passenger fell off the train
beside the river I have not visited since
when I used to loiter endlessly
on the lookout for the arrival of beauty

©Dean Baker

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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