As If

Jesus lived 3 years as himself, got dead.
Said Church was within you, but drink this.
Eat that, become cannibals. I’m coming
back, but I’m not telling when: spend some time
guessing. And
in the meantime, live. That’s all. Get
over yourself, or I will. Here it comes. I
don’t want to spend eternity all hung up on things.

Outside the crows and ravens peck my eyes,
wind blows and I cannot tell time. In the far
distance I hear something approaching, alive.
Pardon me if I dust my broom and ride.
Never mind. You know I would not could not lie.

©Dean J. Baker


The Lost Canadian, Vol. 2 lc2ab

Blood Upon The Moon Soliloquies Of The Horizons


Baker’s Bad Boys – The Stiffsicle

“I found your cat.”
Words spoken on an extremely cold February night by the older Baker bad boy, Dean.

Terry and his tormentor, Dean (aka brother), were visiting their cousin John, in Hamburg, New York. Accompanied by their father and mother in the house that Uncle Walter built himself. The adults were sitting in the living room, making noises with their mouths about other relatives. Silly Sally, aka Aunt Sarah, and the Baker’s bad boys’ mother were listening in, murmuring about this and that.

“Where is she? I can’t see her!”
Dean spoke upwards to the eager young faces of his brother and cousin looking down from the second story window, which had now been raised fully.
“Come on down and I’ll show you.”
The two blissfully unaware young goobers shouted that they’d be right down, slammed the window, and Dean stood by waiting.

It was the first evening of one of their annual visits which all three looked forward to, knowing they’d be raising hell and the bar for juvenile delinquency in many a series of unexpected events.

The front door broke open, and the crunching steps pronounced the boys imminent arrival.

“Well, where is she!”
Cousin John looked and if a kid could gasp, did so.
There was his beloved cat, frozen stiff as a fur popsicle, horizontal to the ground at the base of the tree.

Terry just stared, wondering what evil brother Dean would make of this.

“Why didn’t you tell me!… do you think she’s dead?”
“She’s a big frozen stiffsicle!”
Poor cousin John erupted in a crying rage, saying that’s not funny. Which of course made it hilarious. Both Dean and Terry cackled loudly.

Dean, in misplaced empathy, picked the departed kitty up and leaned her against the tree.
“There, she at least looks like she’s alive.”
“This was her favorite tree.” After a pause, John added, “I thought I heard her last night, told my Dad, but he wouldn’t let me go out… the bastard.”
This description of a nearby adult, along with the circumstances of the dear departed, caused a frisson * of discovery to rattle through all the boys.
“And now she’s dead!”

At this moment, the fursicle, aided by the winter wind, leaned a little left from the tree, then slid down to the ground below and rocked back and forth.
This caused all three Baker’s bad boys to look at each other in a startle, and then break out laughing.

“Stupid cat!” yelled Terry.
“I am the ghost of John’s cat, meowwww,” pronounced Dean.

“What’ll we do with her, John asked, my mother loved that cat, too.”

This question was solved in short order, resulting in the boys running inside, screaming about how cold it was, how they thought they heard Johnny’s cat. Making sure that his mother heard this, and would react with motherly concern.

“Is she out there, boys?”
“She has to be!”
“I thought I heard her by the front somewhere,” Dean stated.
Terry had somehow vanished in his usual Terry way.

“C’mon, Mom, could you at least come to the front door and see if you can hear her?” Johnny asked.
Silly Sarah concluded that it would be no exercise to simply humor the boys, so she marched toward the front door with them.

A slight but almost unheard meow caused a rustle amongst Silly Sarah and Johnny and Dean standing together.
“What was…”

Simultaneously, so that it was not quite heard, a louder yet indistinct secondary meow was heard.

“That’s Pearl, Mom!”
“Did you hear that, Dean?”
“Yeh, I did.”

Aunt Sarah opened the inner front door to enable a view somewhat through the frozen over glass outer door.
The hush was interrupted by another startlingly clear meow.

“That was her, Mom!”
At which point as Aunt Sarah turned to look toward them, Terry came around the corner of the house and cracked the outer front door, to yell, “I found her!”
This caused Silly Sarah to step outside on the porch slab, while both Johnny and Dean crowded behind her.
“Well, where is she!” crowed Aunt Sarah.

At that time all three boys pointed to the ex-kitty who had been tied to the railing around the porch at waist level, and started a chorus of meows.

Aunt Sarah caught a glimpse and immediately inflated into adult hyperbole.

“You little bastards! Whose idea was that to tie that poor Kitty to the railing!”

Sadly, all three Baker’s bad boys had hustled into the house by then, and slammed shut the front door.

With the two Dad’s talking loudly, and Dean and Terry’s mother enjoying the conversation, it was difficult, for awhile anyway, to hear Silly Sarah’s outraged calls to be allowed entry, accompanied by a chorus of meows at every instance of her insistence on having the door opened.

This was indeed a good beginning to their visit, but nothing in comparison to what was to occur the next night……

©Dean J. Baker

*frissongreatly anticipated teenage rebellion

see more in…. Baker’s Bad Boys 

and don’t miss their cousin Harold…. Cousin Harold’s Adventures In The Real World




Latest poetry – Blood Upon The Moon

latest prose poems – Soliloquies Of The Horizons


Disclaimer: None of the events in any of the stories in either Baker’s Bad Boys, or Cousin Harold’s Adventures In The Real World actually took place. Therefore, they are untrue. Well, at least none will be admitted.













Chairman Trudeau, His Liberal Stooges, The Media, Contempt For Voters, or The General state of Being in The Great Ignoranus Of The Present

The General state of Being in The Great Ignoranus Of The Present

I used to think Politicians would lie, and then get caught out by the media usually. It was expected that they would then shame-facedly correct what they’d refer to as an error – another spoiled child lie – and resort to honesty for the next brief term before another one of them got caught out in something else.

Now it seems the better the liar the more likely a strong belief and fanaticism, generated by the media shills. True enough, but what does it say about the sheeple?

That a nation of violent sheep in Canada, and the USA, vote perversely for whomever seems the greater degenerate? for whomever lies the most? IF so, where’s the outrage?
I think it’s drummed into a bland seemingly unaffected offal by the media. Not all of them of course – the media conglomerates are cunning enough to know that they must allow some to bellow about the Emperor’s clothes, or they’d risk the whole cloth of being termed biased, bent and broken as a matter of everyday reporting.
And it seems to have worked – as long as they don’t report that brokenness as an occurrence the sheeple on the whole do not resist: their minds stay asleep.
Don’t want to interfere with sports, you know.

Imagine things are if you were a child. Cops will help. Priests and rabbis will offer aid and suggestions. Politicians will help the country become greater and thus benefit the voters, of any party. And they will all openly talk about what they think. After all, we’re not Russia.
That’s exactly how far gone we are. How distant a hallucination that is, even given the leavening of adult cynicism.
Individual cops may help. Same goes for the priests and rabbis. No politician is expected to tell the truth, nor disclose anything with any honesty.

Every politician is controlled by the greater Politburo of the Party Führer.

And what has the media done? That great impartial beast privy to political and other secrets due to their close work amongst politicians and their associates, and other officials of Government?
By taking sides reflecting their own personal biases they have gradually acclimated the public to lies and distortions – a landslide of accumulated bullshit – so that it would take a Herculean effort to begin to clean out the proverbial stables.

In Canada, Ontario specifically, there once was the poltroon known as Dalton who would be caught lying all the time.
No new taxes he’d say. Result – more new taxes on new taxes.
No shame. He’d do it again. He was called out repeatedly by the media, then told bigger lies. Result? Re-election. In fact instead of no shame, there was the gleam of a perverse pride in the fact that he continued. And his party – Liberals – were all supportive, even while their decisions led to bigger errors and loss of money.
Did he add to the continuing deficit? You bet. Was he charged with negligence, corruption, deceit? Hell, no. He skated off. Was hired by Harvard tools.

This allowed the next liar to be elected.

You see anything unusual?

People do object, but The People have lost any intelligence they might have had whereby they’d truly achieve a result reflecting their objection. Instead they act like the comedic versions of a third-world populace governed by the least intelligent amongst them.

That’s taken awhile. Enabling the lowest common denominator to be what regulates government, media, and thus our lives in a general and larger sense.

Look at culture for that. It’s utterly moronic. The greater sense is that everyone either admires or hates certain cultural effects, whether in music, or literature. It is also what allows celebritards to speak out about their political views, which of course the new media welcomes.

Yeh, I want to know what an unlearned superficial ignoramus ‘thinks’ about the unlearned superficial ignoranuses running for office. Not.

And who makes that socially acceptable? The media – which is paid by ad revenue, audience participation in regards to ads, and likely some backroom payola.
Well, nobody’s offering to stop George Soros’ buying results through paying off groups which instigate events, and thus influence perceptions.
The media’s neutral stance is reflective of their own guilt when reporting such things.

Everything cultural which could stand effectively is co-opted by being turned into something ‘iconic’ by the media, rather than a perspective of effective learning being instilled through a greater sense of respect for genuine art and artists.
Who’s talking about Orwell’s 1984 as if its fearful reality was not only imminent, but present? If it’s mentioned it’s as though it’s separate and apart from reality. Iconic. Couldn’t stand to have it taken as an actuality – would have to do something about it.

And the impulse to do so is smothered by the candy of inundating crap pervading the atmosphere of culture, and media: they’ve become inseparable. Remind you of anything? We’ve been Kremlinized, made ‘useful idiots’ (Stalin, who next to Mao, is the greatest mass murderer, would love it – it’s become ingrained, and welcome… poison).

Back to that child’s view where we can open our eyes without having to constantly deal with the facts that liars and thieves do not operate openly and with impunity, as they do now and are welcomed. So we might as a public whole have and deserve the resulting self-respect.

Where if Trudeau is shown to lie, he is called on that to answer fully. Same goes for his sheep liars.
Where T-Rump is told off for being an offensive shitwit. Where the Hatfield Clinton is jailed.

Unfortunately due to the now acceptable policy of denial, and delaying debate, with the attitude of those in charge that the public are retards, this needs to be constant.
And any authority seen to be compliant with the Liars needs to be called out, repeatedly.

Given that the general brainwashing is so pervasive, the focus would have to be on whatever enters your field of vision, whatever affects you daily in matters particular to yourself, and those around you.

Consider all that’s biased as symptomatic, in light of a better world desired and necessary, and balanced more toward actual learning, better ways and means, and greater growth, both inner and outer.

Next: What are your politicians’ qualifications for bankrupting you? And, considering they work for you – you pay the taxes that pay them – are you nuts?

© Dean J. Baker

You – yeh, you – be very ashamed if you do not 0wn Tormenting The Monkey 218 pages of fun, diatribe, informed opinion, and discussion.

Links to My Print and Ebooks