The Herald

Nothing more than abstract ornament,
explanations and discussions
keeping us to ourselves; we were
too petty for anything else. God
and Spirit, man and God again: no
insight into the common denominators.

Stupidity categorized the crews
taking over. In Canada, one was
reduced to waiting; at best,
you sent yourself notes (not poems)
hoping they would stay closed, or
fall open revealing all upon arrival.

You are lost either way. Death
enters your life: a troubadour
strolling through the provincial town.
Each gesture of government singing
the unwanted guest to bed, who is
finishing the last bite of food.

One brought no plans for conversation,
issuing invitations in the dark
he slips from his clothes. The livery
stark amusement, leaving only the arc
of a streetlamp which constellates:
the hard vistas of distant expectation.


©Dean Baker

latest e-books Shadow Boxing The Infinite

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

©Dean Baker

©All Rights Reserved

When We Are Suicided

When We Are Suicided

“For the haughty men
Have risen up against me,
The ruthless seek my life.”

– Psalm 54:3

Hear ye, Hear ye, Mall America now in session.

The USA one big mall ruled through corporate
governance, inverted democracy that hates anything
ironic, with depth, requiring more than 2 seconds
focus away; reshaping culture into cartoons,
of music, film and the arts through technology
abused, replacing individuals coming together
as individuals with groups
driven by mass psychology, all the better to consume.

To isolate, and be consumed. We cannibalize ourselves,
what we fear most. Everything you detest and protest
directed by media: people have abandoned themselves, lost
the way of looking.

You are cerebral billboards for aphasic degeneration,
grieving for an un-comprehended loss: now that you are
everyone, you might guess
exactly where the Berlin Wall landed finally.
All the silences have been polluted: the true climate change,
the flood of everyone.
The landscape you look outward towards dissipates as you
drown, not wave like Stevie says.

You stare at others as your doom when at that moment,
in this time afterwards, there is no one else in the room.

You think of dying as one long illness. You might
get better, in a season of relief, still live knowing
all is temporary amid the grinning grief of
nitwits congratulating themselves they have cash,
while you’re concerned with poverty, your
imagination failed by those occupied with riches.

You dress in reason and belief, contort your
movements with the progress of ideas: a pleasing
puppetry designed to achieve anything except
the difference you proclaim. Oh, but let’s all be
pleasant finally exclaim those bankrupts of feelings.

You can neither speak nor think without reference
to myths already decimated, the tapestries of
the eternal fixed in earth; moon morons stunned
skyward: anywhere but here, you cry. There must
be something else besides this pit of dust, you sigh

Where there is no finality, but limitation
to what you know or won’t.

©Dean Baker

from Phantoms Of The Northern Forests


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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 blackmail 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 cash 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

Of these crowds which scurry in escape, the
millionaires lead the short parade don’t
plead you’ve been priced out of existence:
now, this place is ours, your life impossible
you may serve as refugee among remains


Soon, you will know the ringing
of the bell I hear none say that rings true
beyond guess or calculation
beyond the miseries of plague or destination
within the world where nations rage

No one controls anything but themselves
everything as they choose to recognize
neither guess nor wish yet see –
this is how we wish, this how we must be
ourselves as we exist priced out of whatever lives

©Dean Baker

from Shadow Boxing The Infinite

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Wish I knew enough to write
something light;
other than wishes expressed,
designs on your beauty:
the midnight caress
of wind, salt and sea

The rhyming dictation
of what may come,
between you and me;
words unspoken suggest
non linguistically: as you smile
and all my dreams awaken


©Dean Baker

The Lost Canadian, Early Poems Selected, e-book $7.99

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This poem has kept me up
two nights

Not that you’re responsible –
I’ve been waiting too long

And though it’s late,
the lights are on.

But now it’s dark
as dark between the sleepers

Who gather beneath this toadstool
midget lawyers of professional corner advice

In a room I never use:
we can’t seem to be quiet about you, child.

What could I do
about official feasts –

Could I provide my grandfather’s excuse
and his high collar like this

The way wild, sly women
take their place

Beside a man
too weary for waiting.

Now the world
appears among your guests

Suddenly apparent and unwelcome
as an anonymous donor

The company stands around:
you are sick into the night.

©Dean Baker

from The Lost Canadian, Early Poems Selected, e-book 

latest e-books Shadow Boxing The Infinite

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

©All Rights Reserved