NEW BOOK – PETTY GODS OF APPARENT DECLINE

NEW BOOK AVAILABLE   Petty Gods Of Apparent Decline 121 pages, $17.99 https://www.amazon.com/dp/1091177414

ebook $9.99

Pre-Orderhttps://www.amazon.com/dp/B07PZ4ZXGT

#Poetry …nothing like you’ve seen before… me, either

‘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.’

**Dark Earth – ‘Rabelais and Hieronymus Bosch look out of dark chinks in these poems…’‘The most unique set of poems I have ever read’

**Silence Louder Than A Train – ‘Highly recommended’ ‘..one would be  hard pressed to do better…’‘…savagely introspective…’

©Dean Baker

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All The Monkeys Dance

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have no fear of #womenofcolor. Nor #democraps. Nor #weaselpoliticians.
It’s simply true that every time you speak you weaken the nation.

I detest the liars who manipulate their position in the public eye as a validation worthy of hearing – by detracting from what they said to focus on a false position as victims.

Less worthy than the weasels who refuse to recognize what they said through phony multicultural inclusiveness in order not to take a stand.
Just because you have a public platform does not signify a worthiness to be heard.

#Idiots who solicit the lowest common denominator in the easily manipulated as a falsely representative show of true understanding while being nothing more than a convocation of morons crowing at the moon.

Who demand an integrity and perspective from others they are incapable of providing for themselves.

You, turdburglars, are supposed to be more capable of those you purport to serve – not pandering parasites who affirm a deterioration of standards to serve yourself, with ill regard for the country.

There is no true debate in a healthy and authentic manner while the prejudiced and passively aggressive negators are even considered to be valid. Any engagement with them results in a descent into further deterioration of vanishing standards, wasting time that becomes an ego contest for recalcitrant, ill-tempered and spoiled children pitching a fit.

The special interest groups fracture a unity that doesn’t stand a chance at building a platform from which to take a stand against the inherent and incestuous stupidity built into the manner of debates.
They divide exactly where they imply that consideration of their points of view would create greater strength.

While transparency would be welcome, only the deluded truly hope for this to ever become a measure of honesty in politics.
Thank your ingrained propaganda masquerading as education for maintaining that conundrum.
What has to happen before anything can be advanced that would truly serve the state of the country is a recognition of how things are actually maintained. But to actualize this would enflame the incipient hysteria in a public deliberately misled as to how things are really utilized.
Can’t you hear them?

‘Corporations govern our economy.
‘We, the government, pledge money to the groups most manipulated, and self-serving, by the media – we know you don’t really care, or are incapable of the thought that would clarify who is most deserving of consideration, rather than that which satisfies the straw dogs of social injustice.
‘We enact that which serves the least disturbing, rather than the most affirming because we could lose our jobs and ego validation if the unthinking mob rose up in protest.
‘We do this because you, the public, will never hold yourselves accountable. That, after all, would be the first step in actual, practical socialism.
“As long as you look to us to lead, before you govern your own selves, this masquerade of political justice being possible, stays in place.’

Truth served. Abuses named. People generally engaged. Special interests designated.

Result? A calm and responsible manner of discussion in which the only valid side recognized is what is integral for the country and as wide a swath of people as possible?

You betcha.

 

A Nation Of Lunatics

 

The anhedonics have it; more pills,
loveless sex, booze and cash, all
forms of coping with the modern world.

Or athletics, politics, religion –
each interchangeable and dependent
upon the credulity of homo sapiens.

Enter the delusion of impending fame,
no less than cosmic significance, and
don’t forget the neighbors’ good opinion.

All this plus an ability to command
weather by temperament, along with
the omnipotent faculty of being bland.

Fueled by money and growing sophistication
as the level of education sinks:
the picture of a people who cannot think.

©Dean Baker

https://www.amazon.com/Silence-Louder-Than-Train-Baker/dp/1494963353

https://deanjbaker.wordpress.com/2019/03/08/new-editions/

https://deanjbaker.wordpress.com/2019/03/09/therapy/

Arp! The Harold Angels Sing

‘Tis the season and all that shite. The softly drifting snow, the twilight’s gleaming, my love is somewhere dreaming of me in ways I don’t know.

Presents for them, but more for me, please. The tree, and food, and drinks. The sweet release from everything and everyone ordinary.
In other words, slush and freeze; shivering in jeans, a woman who doesn’t know enough to step up and say hey, come with me, or hello, I’ll be there soon.
Money spent and gone on things I can’t afford for me, the damn forest in the middle of the living-room. Food someone else made that looks good but tastes like a wino’s dream, and drinks as if we were bobbing for crapples on Halloween.

And then there’s my cousin, Harold.

A genial guy whom everyone, who isn’t busy hating or disseminating the squid ink of their own self-pity, can genuinely feel affection for. No false pride, not any particular twitch to score on anyone.
The only thing is Harold likes to be the nemesis to all, to be the one who either says or brings to light whatever might be uncomfartable for all.

The other night, Aunt Biddy was telling him, ‘Well, Harold, have you found yourself a good woman, yet?‘ And Harold of course had to say, ‘No, but I’m making progress towards building one. I have a couple who have just the right parts, but just don’t fit together. You know they say seen one, seen’m both, but can’t make them wear tattoos, have piercings, or dress up in leather.’
Harold had pretty much been gobbling all the food he could handle, hoovering down like it was going to melt and disappear the minute it hit the plate, so he resumed munching his way through the yuletide feedbag.
That was ok with Uncle Dumpy, but anti Biddy, did not appreciate Harold’s enjoyment and thought he ought to proceed as if he were perched upon an imminent colostomy.
Shades of John Keats!
Harold! Can’t you have some manners! Doesn’t this season make you want to be popular, to have lots of friends surrounding you, to have them all wanting to see you, impatient to know how you’re doing, to have them lined up at your door?’
Harold, of course, took this opportunity to politely inquire of Aunt Biddy, ‘You mean like a prostituti?’

Auntie dropped one of her two drumsticks and was about to recover when Harold tucked his chin in and processed some of the finely seasoned swill he’d gotten down so far.
She looked at me, who for once wasn’t thinking about various self-congratulatory names for my huge throbber, and said, ‘What the hell was that!’
Joy to the world? I replied.
At which point, Harold decided to join the party and buzz-sawed his arrival in the form of a loud and raucous fart.

It’s in the bible, Auntie, I said. Make a joyful noise.
Harold’s spirit got the best of him then, and he asked Aunt Biddy, hey Auntie, what’s brown and sounds like a bell? Dung!
By this time, Uncle Dumpy was laughing so much he spilled some of next week’s leftovers onto his chest. Harold, having consumed more than enough, took one look, flushed, and proceeded to honk out his evenings’ consumption as he fell over the couch trying to run for the porcelain altar.

I was only laughing but that caused the food to rise in a hasty process, and I simultaneously blew gas and arked upward like a demented choirboy causing the outraged Aunt Biddy to demand again: ‘Jesus, what the hell was that!’
Duet? I asked.
She looked like she had a stone’s worth of something that needed processing herself with the frown and pursed lips; pointing to Harold sprawled over the couch arm and twilight zoning a look at me, she squealed, You! And him! What is this!
Arp, the Harold angels sing, Auntie. It’s the real Christmas.

©Dean J. Baker

see also: https://www.amazon.com/Bakers-Bad-Boys-Dean-Baker/dp/1496040082 https://www.amazon.com/Tormenting-Monkey-Dean-J-Baker/dp/1514871963/