The Impoverishment of Fecaliths, or Take Your Medecine

Dean J. Baker - Poetry, and prose poems

All this incessant chatter in regards
to storms, floods, hurricanes, tornadoes
in Texas, Florida, the Carolinas doesn’t say
you can make it as long as you’re not
poor; otherwise, be a hero
not a victim of socialized government, that
blue-dress devil taking away
your vaunted independence, plucking out
eyes, ripping limbs and tossing discussion
like kites into trees riding the waves

Until you cannot believe this isn’t 1776
without progress from hypnotized ideology,
where the idea is of greater consequence
than any claim chewed on for centuries
so we must have cerebral febrilities
masquerading as application when sick, unable
to do anything much by the limiting power
of low wages, you must remain constrained
be vulnerable, perhaps die
maybe lose everything, the ability to enjoy

Because the idle elite of whom you alone
are the greater portion discuss
meaning, how to grant
what’s already your own, untrusting each
not to…

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Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic ………………… All Of Fudd’s Children


There was Iron Butt, Dodger Crotchrot, Roderick Sexmaniac, Angry McHardon, Perri Coma, Styp, the Evil Dwarf, and a host of others – as in, a plague of hosts.
Patients in the Waiting Room of Life, as lived by another who was psychopathic.
Each felt themselves the best, more than any others. None would not stop to make fun of another whom they decided threatened their minor empire, like Styp and the girlfriend several other guys would fuck and discard, confident that even confronted with the oh-so-clever sarcasm they would not get punched out.

Which they confused with the one made aware of this as unknowing, or stupid.
Or with Booby Wasu (aka the Evil Dwarf), steal lines from someone, insert it in a song, look guiltily at them while they performed and then go stand by them so they could be told ‘hey that’s my shit’ as they said ‘oh yeh, sorry, will take it out.’ Shameless wankers.
And those who in earlier days had classified the entire lot as losers would come to play the elder statesman and talk about their Great talent when the place shut down temporarily.

Reputation fed on even the most minor conveyance of respect, absent of course of any greater talent in the world, so that there was a whole class of non-entities praising each other then and in later days.

The exceptions had a much keener eye for the fuel of hypocrisy,
and were usually busy getting into print, or being otherwise known elsewhere.
As long as the person pretended not to know who had value and who was merely acting as the city’s buttclench, they were left undisturbed by rumor or innuendo.
Those who had actual connections to greater artists, from friendship or simply introduction, were silently chastised and cursed. No surprise that they would be vilified as they had achieved something without the imprimatur of the crowd of angry villagers.

Well, some of us long for memory’s little death, especially after the continental stupidity of some SOB howling as though his cat was being dipped in hot water.
Howling at the bare moon. Of discovering there was an ass, and they are it.
Cracking up, or being sick with violins; until you’re as ill as they speak of these ghosts and those dead.

Of course this is more exorcism than festival, more pathology than curse, more forgetful patience than celebrated remembrance.
These knobs could steal the stink off shit.

Babies meeting, then turning vicious in their rosy-cheeked and full-pants appreciation of the world. Ignoring the obvious, the cold
superiority that only arises in familiar confrontation of gabble and gobble.

Back and forth, eye on the opening door; never mind the performer, forget the stage and reason.

This is the real, the old soft soap opera without a season.

©Dean Baker

 

 

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from Cousin Harold’s Adventures In The Real World… ‘Cousin Harold, Security Guard’

Dean J. Baker - Poetry, and prose poems

1
“Of course I like to help people – from my desk, with pop and chips. It’s the thought that counts.”

Cousin Harold

So stated a laboring Cousin Harold as he struggled against the imprecations of one Mrs. Grumpypants who was shoveling inspiration as quickly as she could on why Cousin Harold ought to apply for a job, somewhere.
Cousin Harold had been having a bad time considering the dozens of jobs for which he ought to apply and it had tired him out daily. By the time he came to actually having to do something about it he found himself caught in the philosophical dilemma of ‘to do, or to be.’

This became boring after a few seconds so he fell asleep on the couch with the newspaper folded over him.
Which was usually how Mrs. Grumpypants found him after returning home from work.

“Harold! Wake up! If you…

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