Drifting Into War

We were drifting into war. There never had to be any special reason.

We, drifting into war; married and divorced, looking for nothing more: and nothing was apparent. Everything happened simultaneously.

This was no mere divergence of opinion, not a simple differing between various souls; this conflagration of passions buried too long and misdirected in a fatal simplicity.

A necessary tension embraced us all. Immediately prior to the release there existed a sense of community, still. As if a shell, or canopy of night were drawn over the world.

That became the diamond-hard pressure; exerting its scroll across the history held too close within the heart of the human animal once again.
And again.

We were drifting into war. This never implied any sort of vigilance or lack, only a sense of communal conscience.

So, don’t tell me. Don’t haste.


©Dean J. Baker

-excerpt from Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic   … A coffeehouse, café as society

Prose poems that are a paean to Musicians, Writers, Artists, & Wingnuts…. from a review..”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….”

is our poet of the future.”




The Stupid

The Stupid are easily provoked into self-righteousness. It’s better than bells on cows or sheep.
They lemming walk through reaction on every stage in which they speak, forgetting to read or think.

Experts everywhere in everything, they delight Islamicists, The Russia, their fellow bullies all asleep. They become what they hate: feminists will replace the patriarchy in their adolescent glories, their whips velvet striped.

Critics, purveyors of what resembles literature, cultural dictators bleeding for a heel to kiss: oh please, accept these deranged philosophies as our bliss. We is individuals, you see.
Yas, we be inagaddadaviduals.

Abandoned by the absence of intellectuals, the learned stooges’ committee guaranteeing poo-etry as the real thing when it’s merely verbal graffiti resulting in declines of awareness, discipline, and cognizance as a resentful rebellion against the maroons in suits all anal-bound and Stalinesque. Silly kids, such Piggies all island bought.

We be not Elizabethan, dey says, denying Shakespeare. We be The New Grammarians, never so ironic as to believe if only the past is seen, the present obscene, then we makes new worlds. Oh Vladimir & Josef, dis is the jerkers’ paradise where everything is eliminated in an excremental void.

If you don’t believe, we kill you proudly. Look what you made us do.

The new chain gang, the sweet fizz of righteous lumbering towards Bethlehem: the sweet beast of mass-turbapurgatory fascism awakes.

Won’t you join our circle game: snake in the ass end of these reindeer games, satisfaction in these black holes of falling through into nothingmess.
Patient wheel-chaired in the hallway of the recuperation facility of history barely mouthing through drool and deranged simplicities, ‘Won’t somebody he’p me pleasssssssse, thrrrrrrrp.’

©Dean J. Baker


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There Is A War On, Raging






Stupid times. Immigrants before native-born poor, kids, and vets: the disadvantaged.
Criminals in charge and debates about it, rather than action. The media costuming everything in the form of their agenda. No free press untainted by egomaniacs.
People swept up in the importance of having their say without addressing the need to investigate to the core the so-called sources.
If God is anything, a higher power, a great being, then it is made manifest in people. We thus worship poorly while perversely maintaining an iron grip on a status quo since change is desired but frightening.
We betray ourselves.

Consuming everything, talking about it all without a sense of import or invocation, they lie. Achievements measured in degrees, or jobs – nothing done without the marketplace in mind. Passion a deed of sexualized innuendo dissipating everything even as it may falsely satisfy.
Our gods the blonde leading the bland. Seduction is candy for we, the children. Our desires misplaced, our yearning corrupt, our aims gathered by Cyclops, the one-eyed king in charge of the monstrous which we fail to annihilate.

How to stop. How to begin. Lies of skid-row idiots. Fearful of death and unable to die. Reborn to Hollywood and its lowest common denominator again. The family. The wistful girl. The innocents everywhere. Monsters abandoned in horror stories, or serialized in fantasies of vengeance.
“The gun, Jimmy, the gun.” Broke-dick mountain, indeed.

The storm gathering. The weeds shifting. Something in the alien corn. The Tower of Babel worshiped.

The costume of plenty. The scarecrow of reality stuffed with anxieties as a substitute for deeds. Oh God, hear our prayer as a voodoo for growth altering everything.
Towns burning with the corrupt, cities a blazing, the deserts the only fertile fields left for cherishing.

The crops are stained, the buildings all aflame with weasels of opportunities mislaid. Oh we know evil when we see it, don’t we.

There is a war on, raging.

©Dean J. Baker

-excerpt from Provenances And Paroles, 2015, <- click here to buy for $5.99, 91 pages

Turd Burglars

a rupi for your non-thoughts

If poetry, art and perspective,
was meant
was meant to be
sort, stunted, stutterings
to be taken
metawhorically by minds
unconcerned, dismissive of

what craft can bring
expressive of a mental decline
displaying high signs
pretentious to higher worth
of learning, fine tuning ability
of sight and sound
thus understanding

no difference would be
between the quibblers of
misdirection in language
literary traffic police
causing clash and crash
for cash

than those excremental
artistes scribbling visions
on shithouse walls
while believing those who read
those words of wit
rolled into little balls, resigned
should eat those little balls of shit

now designed

©Dean J. Baker




The Cloak Of Nations

Still unraveling, a bellicose
and belligerent people, indifferent
to their truest nature
speak of greatness,
a return to what has never existed,

condemned to a slow deliquescence,
proclaim each resultant color change evidence
of inner light and beauty plain to greet

Observe in chrysalid alteration what’s
become of proof and guilt but clichés,
stasis and deranged simplicity

Imposed rules to provide amnesty against
inherited deceit
equal to loyalty as each
threatens abandonment of all simultaneously
in a frenzy of revelation and ice cream

©Dean J. Baker

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Petty Gods Of Apparent Decline 


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Poetry that is classic and timeless.’

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Work which illuminates as it informs – a reviving sense of discovery and perspective.’

Sheepish: You Have Feelings

you say you have feelings, enumerate
these by infinite degrees, in whimsical
pleas for attention and full credibility
as poetry, not verse

accredited finally by replicate monkeys
making memes, striving to appear wise
in their stuttering repetition:
nothing new, nothing unique that doesn’t

count against what you believe you achieve
shutting out those who do, in reality
but you have feelings relatable with ease,
small pocket pills of verse the worst

removing focus on the best unaddressed
but that’s okay since the committee of morons
say you’re a poet, you fit in to our factory
of non-original non-unique

providing occupation for those otherwise
busy knitting spirit doilies
for their comfortable couch, pillows of
small talk to rest curious-less about anything

else that does not reframe your lazy, and
busted flame of mild warmth, false triumph
in the humiliation of literature chastened: but you
remain, tick wrapped in a culture of stupidity and shame

© Dean J. Baker



If anyone professing love of art, for poetry
we might yet be saved from ourselves
but majority rules and there are no substitutes
for lack of perception, the dignity to rule
from common truths not held hostage,
what your greed decides is required for you
the cronies you parcel out power to, so

The fact is we’re doomed, as versifiers
pollute the reality of what is art and literature,
the ego divides a borderline where
what is fine and does not fit does not exist,
threatening their holy triumphs of
what is described, dull and uninspiring: the
detritus of the true divine turned into shiterature

©Dean J. Baker