..from BLOOD UPON THE MOON.. ‘Paytriotism’








The moron-in-chief is bellowing blandishments about
who to blame and how he’ll fix them, and it and us and
the entire country if this must be known, sounding
as much a bully as degenerate tool championing the demonic

A pure victim preaching a screed of vengeance, echoing
down the corridors where no power flows towards
the great unwashed, those born in anonymity
enduring invasion and alteration of scenery and a landscape

Of wailing babies thrust into another time change, fists
clenched and backsides spewing mortal frustration
against the ability to adapt, renew and prosper amid
all the obstacles and plinths of worship: one voice, one people

One country undivided against itself, the body politic
invaded and now to be restored to former glory,
after termed parasites and the infected are removed
leaving the corpse of patriotism to prove worthy of one more story

Unlearning what war means to distinguish between the focus
of good and evil, the narrow confines of a superlative truth
the small hunched tunnel towards another gas chamber: no journey
toward or onward cheating history again in a frieze of movement

Caught like lovers on a Grecian urn, now not forever young
as Keats had it but burned in effigy by the caricatures
come alive, holding truth hostage to their involvement,
seeking reparations against what they perpetrate and endlessly become

Golum, Golem, the perverse Prometheus, if you knew and did
not have to guess amid a flourishing ignorance of history or
Santayana (what he said), all ready to grab their chests in sentiment
crying salutations and promises of virginity to the new Death’s head

©Dean Baker

The Origin Of Names in Certain Russian Characters: Vlad Pootin’

How Vlad the Tooter became Vlad Pootin who now is Vladimir Pootin’

Coming from some deep Russian, Ukrainian, Polish ancestry on one side of my family, I can vouch for the necessity of name change.
Superstition, bureaucracy feeding on its people, a sense of privacy required, and the freedom to begin without the weight of idiots’ prejudice.
Thus we come to the status of world leader Vladimir Pootin’ – and the origins of his patronomic.

As might be guessed, and divined from great Russian Literature, as well as the tiny bit of knowledge of the real world that gets through which the media fails to block, Vladimir is the Russian leader who is ex-KGB, strong, authoritative and prone to eliminating enemies, perceived and real.
He’s kind that way. He does not relegate them to government jobs by which they might snipe at him via malicious gossip. Smart to do so.

His ancestors were likely peasants grubbing the land, ducking whenever Stalin the Sentimental Butcher came a-roving. Of necessity they ate potatoes, beets, roots, and cabbages.
Thus we come to the origins of his familial name.

The family knew – because he told them – when Vlad was young that he’d be a leader, making sure to gather food for them. That sold them on his career; his neighbors helped, and the word spread: support young Vlad and eat well.
However, most people wanted proof so when young Vlad was not stretched back grazing on the family’s jewels: taters, beets, cabbages – he was sent forth on walking trips to spread the proof.

Given that the government wanted to eliminate any challenge whatsoever, a method was devised whereby he could assure the peasants, and keep his name secret.
His many cousins would arrive at each town and set up a table, with a big chair toppled backwards on which young Vlad would make his ‘speech.’

Upon secretly arriving, Vlad would climb the chair, facing away from the audience; who would be greeted with only the aspect of his arse presenting itself for their perusal.
His cousins would charge the audience with statements such as, ‘Who wants to always eat!’ and ‘Trust the one who gives you food!’ and ‘What is the surest faith?!Proof!’
With one more statement, young Vlad would be prompted to begin his convocation of confidence: ‘And in Russia, what is the greatest proof of constant food, since we dine on potatoes, and cabbages?! – nasty farts!’

At this point Vlad would start his toot-worthy attempt to make known the Russian anthem in support of patriotism.
The crowds were swayed. A few fools everywhere though demanded proof that he was not a government plant, and asked him how could they know he was dining on cabbages, and that these were from their areas.
His politician’s brain went to work.
‘You know how there are certain dialects for many areas, variations on a common ground of language? Well just so with vegetables, and their after effects in specific scents!
Come closer and smell the proof!’
At this time, anyone looking at the many spectacles taking place with each meeting in the small towns would be greeted with the sight of a line of small children, old women and bent–over men lining up as if to kiss an anonymous ass, then walking away with smiles of satisfaction. Claude Lévi-Strauss would have been stupefied in his attempts to detect the origins of such a habit.

Thus Vlad’s fame and authenticity passed.. so to speak. His anonymity was guaranteed. This did present a problem of how he might gain electoral office if he wasn’t known, yet his identity disguised.
A clever peasant, Bilary Clintoniak, was who employed to snatch the fleeting will-knots off Vlad’s butt – lest they harm the townsfolk – came up with the minor disguise of changing the last name Pooting to Pootin’.
She fully expected to assume the throne, as well, although rumor has it she merely got hit by a stray will-knot as she attempted to snatch a few and market them as gems later.

Thus in their efforts to disguise this great pretender to the Russian throne, a certain essential and inescapable reality was missed.
Vlad had named himself after his activity. The media had translated his name with a ‘u’ rather than the more common ‘oo’ after the P.
The fact that it was not his name at all had been lost.
Small clues began to emerge when ‘Vlad’ was heard muttering ‘Just watch me,’ and ‘Fuckez vous’ and ‘ Le Pierre, c’est moi’ (although to be fair this was mistakenly heard and translated as ‘I am your peer.’*), despite the fact that many English speaking people will swear that he said, ‘I shit in your ear.’

And so began the myth of old dead bloodsuckers being dug up and assuming office, pooting their way through the land and the people as some complained, some exclaimed, and all were unable to smell the trees because of the breeze.

©Dean J. Baker

*Disclaimer: this is not Pierre Elliot Trudeau, former Prime Minister of Canada, who is verifiably, and really and truly, dead as can be attested to by the long lines of Ontario residents que’d up to take a dump on his grave at $100 a ‘shot’.
Far be it for the editors to imply that they have heard rumors that the governors of La Belle Province have been heard to be thinking about turning the incurring piles into apartment buildings for ‘ce foutu anglais, le maudit anglais’ in a misguided attempt to erect a shrine to their former leader.

When poet Dean Baker was asked his opinion, he said, ‘A shrine to Turdeau? made of vacationers’ dumps? I like it. It has a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’, but let me not repeat myself.. so to speak.’

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Presidential Candidates – T-Rump, and I’ll Get You, My Pretty

Both candidates are symptoms, not solutions

Usually you would think the words ‘presidential’ and ‘candidate’ were significant, meaningful, as they’re meant to not only designate those running for election, but represent those with the qualities necessary to enter the process of attempting to gain the Presidential office.

Not this time.

The woman is gathering all sorts of celebrity endorsements to once again confirm that outside their performances such celebrities are mostly stupid. You know, morons – life-forms without a clue as to reality and its designations.
Never mind that she’s a proven and un-clever liar. Or that she’s profits from her political connections (quick, how do we make millions out of you working for the Government? I know, create a Charity! The public are morons, they’ll have to investigate, and by the time they do we’ll have muddled it all, and win the sympathy vote).
She’s a swamp of accusations, the accurate and true number yet to be determined. This alone ought to disqualify her.    

The guy talks like a collegiate, average, low normal knob. Someone with a gift for making money – apparently – yet who sounds like discipline to him is what he expects from his dominatrix, not what he applies to himself. Speech therapy is obviously a challenge when it comes to public presentations.

A reporter with special needs is mocked by T-Rump who waves his hands in the air and makes mush mouth sounds. What a genius. What dignity. The idea that he might be on his best behavior given that he’s running for election makes it scary. The fact that he probably was being himself shows a sophomoric sense of humor without a delineating and expansive sense of satire that is not so mean and dull. Maybe he could apply it to himself.


And his Butt Buddy, Ann Coulter, states that he was merely “doing a standard retard.” She’ll be back at it soon, after she gets her face fixed. T-Rump bent down to pick something up, and she broke her nose.
Hopefully this is a phase. She’s proven clever, intelligent and proactive in her books – but for now she’s another millionaire indulging wanton disregard for anything other than her own beliefs.
Gone the way of Michael Moore.

Imagine other countries looking at the two candidates. Minus any caricaturing. The clownish, cartoon aspect of the bland evil of their special psychopathology is a fearful thing if they are truly representative.

Political discourse these days amounts to a Three Stooges’ pie fight.

The dignity of the potential President is compromised by the fact that anyone could expect at any time another eye gouging, chuckleheaded thrombotic spastic dance from either one with each deluded enough to believe they are succeeding in showing themselves as people of a solid core character, rather than the slinky aspects of a superficial snakes-and-ladders game with the country’s destiny on offer.

In the pre-election run-up, neither one qualifies as better than anything. In fact, they both look to be best suited for the category of the Victorian regard for children who were neither to be seen nor heard.
And in real terms: Those Who Do Not Belong In Office.. Unless They Are Handing Out Mints.

Somewhere in another version of reality we have candidates who we respect, who leave no doubt as to the depth of their character, rather than the spread of their personal machinations. Candidates whom we’d like to know.

Somewhere isn’t here.

Both candidates are symptoms, not solutions.


© Dean J. Baker

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