Capital

The capital of Mexico
as everyone knows is Los Angeles

In your penury you recognize
nothing of poetry or music

Believing it comes free
for you anything will do

You see you’ll pay nothing,
stuffed with substitutes

Wealthier than you though broke,
I’m more than you could hope

Looking for blood and guts
your media rules apply to ghosts

You are destitute
a slip of attitude standing for

The amusement of those of us
abused in exile, alone in truth

©Dean Baker

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©Dean Baker

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Reap The Whirlwind

It’s coming, make no mistake.
You cannot guess at the elephant,
feel the ground shake and say: I don’t
see any animal, that’s an earthquake;
or maybe it’s my bowels, yes
this must be my mistake: happiness

In the great refusal a blessed fake
where logic’s undeniable, you won’t
get stuck with the loser or abuser,
nothing but fear you choose so
abandoned only to yourself again:
when you wake years from then, wondering

©Dean Baker

click photo for Ebook link Silence Louder Than A Train ebook   $6.99 – buy the book and discover other poems inside…

”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’s ‘Silence Louder Than A Train.”

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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…”

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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

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©Dean Baker

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Social Network

I am not older, I merely
grew tired of the appearance
of endless beauty

I work under the conceit
of sore knees,
wrinkled youth and duty

You believe these apply to others
certainly not you
your hesitation certain doom

Come to me when truth can
refuse your particular disability
while you are discovering

Death has no separate rooms,
only the inevitability you ignore
or later tell yourself you choose

©Dean Baker

click photo for Ebook link All These Being Hinterlands

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paperback: – All These Being Hinterlands

Chronologically

Of course there’s no such thing, speaking
chronologically. There’s interruption, the stopped
clock phenomenon where you see differently
than what is actually going on: saccading to
history, for instance.
This would explain all those
instances sweet and good where in a rage they
call for annihilation in order to self-sustain the mechanism
of what only you are allowed to know as true.

The idiocy of fascism, the great crowd determining the realistic.
The martyrs and the saints. But then religion itself
does not claim to envision anything like time foregone.

The event is happening now. Much the same way my cat sits
on my desk studying forever by lamplight, for the
enlightenment: so much for fun and entertainment.

Thus determineth the sacred and the vows. Meow, says
Buddha. Ow, says Christ. Hello, I say to you in celebration
of speech therapy also known as poetry in these ancient days.

©Dean Baker

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paperback: – Provenances And Paroles paperback

 

As If, or Your Teacup Philosophy

Jesus lived 3 years as himself, got dead.
Said Church was within you, but drink this.

Eat that, become cannibals. I’m coming
back, but I’m not telling when: spend some time
guessing. And
in the meantime, live. That’s all. Get
over yourself, or I will. Here it comes. I
don’t want to spend eternity all hung up on things.

Outside the crows and ravens
peck my eyes, the wind blows and I cannot
tell time. In the far
distance I hear something approaching, alive.
Pardon me if I dust my broom and ride.

What?
Never mind. You know I would not, could not, lie.

(©)Dean Baker

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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,
become
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,
nostalgia
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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*****https://https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08YBDFWGB Phantoms Of The Northern Forests*****

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0917TF1K9 Steel Butterflies

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08ZJLWZ13 The New Poetry Hotel

©All Rights Reserved
deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com