Each Happy Being


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

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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.”

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In Its Beginnings


Every time I show you who I am,
you set me on fire saying Ash is such
a wonderful camouflage against disguise

For the patient kind not seeking to surprise,
love is the ordinary task
of managing consciousness and fine things

With pliers against skin, that velvet sin
no more, you bring me nothing
in the chemical exchange of mysteries

Undefined in our new century, we
map the boundaries unexplored
and fittingly prepare for the next disappearance

To materialize at our door: soliciting
butterflies who applaud our heart,
minus the clumsy contraption of wings

(©)Dean Baker

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“An inspired set of poems. Dean gets to the essence of a subject.”

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Your Beauty


Your beauty has nothing to do with you.
Just because I admire what’s
Sweet and good, does not mean it is true.

Your truth may be right and straight, but
This belongs to what is old, not new.
Your beauty has nothing to do with you.

Your wonder is all you may own, your
Joy at what inspires and works alone.
Your truth has never been a ghost.

Your beauty and your truth are one at last.
I can see them in the mirror now:
In the reflection, not the shadow that you cast.

©Dean Baker

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  • “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’s ‘Silence Louder Than A Train.’”

    “Poetry and prose poems of a passionate & intense originality which transcends the boundaries of the everyday. Words that speak, sing, and witness to convey us beyond the poems themselves to allow fresh discovery with each reading”

    “… 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.”

    latest e-books $5.99, https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08YBJTJFP Shadow Boxing The Infinite

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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

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    Poetry that is classic and timeless.’

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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 Monkeyhttps://www.amazon.com/Tormenting-Monkey-Dean-J-Baker/dp/1514871963

    $3.99 e-book

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    All These Carusos

    All the internet’s a raised eyebrow, a smug look
    and Caruso singing me, me, me, o solo mio,
    remedial bumblers attempting insight, declaring
    themselves non-carriers of blight and stuck,
    vituperative non-entities trumpeting their lies
    as insight because they never look for themselves

    where they’d confide hey that came out seemingly
    alright, struck a chord of similarities by those
    who peruse the profound in an instant, now
    decoratively stating this is right, nothing else shall
    suit us or we fall off the edge of this flat earth
    we’ve contrived where everything known remains in sight

    with all the Carusos gargling vowels and turning
    trite the trivial flickering lights above themselves
    mistaken for halos, spitting out blurbs as history
    alters course for their lack of right or wrong
    balanced upon who welcomes, who might refuse:
    each mules the drug they claim not to recognize at all

    ©Dean Baker

    -from Steel Butterflies

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