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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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.

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The Bullies Trade Places

Are you ready for China? They’re coming
for you – chopstick your dog, feed
you briquettes, dominate worldviews,
become an obstacle in the path of real
and true news, unite everyone against them

until the fools complain about prejudice
regarding Mongol hordes and relentless
pressure to be multiculturally balanced
while the oppressed everywhere join in
perversely to share their non-views and gain

a unique perspective on false imprisonment
for the powerless forced to observe
the hijacking of morality and truth once more
unless bribed with cash and special designations
allowing them to become ambassadors of

insight and special determination, newly
wise to the truths objected to again as though
you were mere children caught in sandbox
runes making false landscapes of hill and dale
where they bury themselves from the past taking place

©Dean Baker

©All Rights Reserved

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