Each Happy Being

CelestialCovernew1


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

©All Rights Reserved

Celestial Migrations In The Empire ebook $4.99

paperback – © Celestial Migrations In The Empire paperback 

© deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

Secrets

DarkEarthcovernew1copy


The depth of my soul cannot be measured by the lack of currency
in my possession.
The coins of your success do not notch failure in my heart, which
lies forever in your thoughts.

Many talented Golem walk, wander the streets of cities, such as
Nashville and Toronto, convinced of their importance. They light
the pages of the military’s internet.
They are not my army. But your conscripts into the columns, churning
towards honey and God amid the eternal dust.

The secret you keep from everyone is: nothing you have or possess
will be kept safe; everything will be taken, everyone lost is already found,
nothing you task is sacred or profound.

I am the thief who has stolen these moments, remaining
unconvinced the poet’s garret suggests anything, but the poverty of
your own inabilities you please yourselves to call imaginations.

More wealth is mine than you could dream. And that is how I keep
the world of your possessions, with a benediction and a song: a heartbeat.

Dance now, in your cage of bones, as the flames burn higher. Don’t
ask me to help when all along I have done what I can, offered sustenance:
thrown all things up in the air the better to be seen.

And all you’ve done is to dispatch the crows to steal the shining stars
and pretty things you could never hope to own.

This is the embrace, the kiss you have been waiting for: a secret even
now you have lusted after, and towards.

There is no end.

©Dean Baker

Quotes from some Reviews:

“The most unique set of poems I have ever read.” “Having read DARK EARTH by Dean Baker my first reaction is WOW. This was written for me.”

“Dean is a true comic poet as well, full of those sly interventions and evasions, slights of self, recriminations and elisions… He’s the kind of poet that gets under your skin and stays there like a song in some dark noir alley that sings to you of love and death suckled on good old home-grown truth. Through his exceptional and distinctive poems and prose poems you will be fully engaged…”

“The key to Dean’s art is its unique subtle narration of certain moments that are never revealed in the full natural disclosure of facts, but are rather revealed more subtly in the voicing of certain affective relations between memory and mind in this ongoing inquisition with the sordidness of our unlived lives.”

Dark Earth ebook  $4.99

Dark Earth paperback 

Literary Publications

©All Rights Reserved
deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

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/

©All Rights Reserved

© deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

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   

©All Rights Reserved
deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

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

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

©All Rights Reserved

my books on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/

© deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

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

©All Rights Reserved

my books on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/

© deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com