My Latest Books







All of my print books are available at $7.99, $8.99, & $9.99 or less, and the ebooks are mostly $2.99 with the latest at $3.99, and a couple larger books at $4.99 – a few others that are higher will be lowered in price once they come off their Kindle promotion.

Especially in the moment for the new books:

I want these books to be read and enjoyed, so the price is an accommodation to what Amazon allows to be charged with a very small sum allocated for myself – usually slightly over a dollar in case of the print books, far less than that in regards to the ebooks which are priced at $2.99 to $3.99, including the ebooks for my latest books.

You can buy the print version and get the accompanying ebook for only 1.99 and .99 from Amazon.

Ebooks at $2.99 –

THE MOON WORN TIDES, Vol.1, The Prose Poems











Ebooks at $3.99 –









Ebooks at $4.99 –



CELESTIAL MIGRATIONS IN THE EMPIRE published on Dec.20/17, and OF THE DOMINIONS UNLEAVENED, published a few weeks ago have a companion volume:

The third volume in the unofficial trilogy, ALL THESE BEING HINTERLANDS, my 25th book is published.

None of these were rushed out, thrown together in any hasty measure, but with care and dedication combined to come together in the writing, editing, and process of publication for a period of well over a year +.
It wasn’t until I began winnowing out any number of poems that didn’t fit with the themes I saw developing that the fact that there would be a few books, and then a third brought itself to light.


[these books are very inexpensive $3, $4, $5 – why ‘click’ without a decision to buy?]

©Dean J. Baker


Is it true that Toronto – and thus as a representative city, Canada – has turned into poo? or, Why Has Society Turned Into A Bunch Of Spastics On Fire

Are You A Citizen? Do You Feel You’re An Artist? Could You Possibly Be A Writer Of Poo-etry? –
Read this, or Remain A Tool










1) Well, it’s true you need a shitload of money if you are going to live in Toronto.
2) You also need not mind the aggressive behavior of self-entitled screaming morons who mimic other morons elsewhere in the world protesting this, protesting that – everything except what needs protesting: the protesters, aka whiners.
3) You also have to not mind being assaulted, maybe beaten and robbed, because hey, the cops will do what they can about it: nothing. You’ve been beaten and assaulted… the cops only look after the fact, after the facts: got to keep their jobs, you know.

You also have to not mind that you don’t matter. High taxes, high prices, house prices fit for millionaires, no ability to defend yourself (it is actually against the Law, the law working out to: don’t hurt the criminal, they might charge you), common sense over-ruled by the numbers of multi-ethnicity guaranteeing that catering Liberals and their high-minded, low ethic standard will eclipse actual real life benefits to the most people.
As to #1:
1) Fuck the poor, those lazy bastards. This is governmental reasoning. ‘We work, and slave, and attempt for years to bump up their quality of life, and all they do is complain.’
2) Let us not understand that such attempts are inadequate due to the nature of bureaucracy being slow and behind the times (the necessities which they pretend to address) and thus have a built-in failure: guaranteeing further governmental bureaucracy and consistently disappointed poor.
3) The benefits: politicians. They have a lifelong job of establishing themselves as necessary without ever establishing a system that fixes what they pretend to fix, but instead simply maintain thus ensuring system of nameless victims and a roster of valiant attempts and heraldic icons of authentic politicians. Not only are their pensions mandated but thus so are the problems.
4) $15 an hour? A full time slave working 40 hrs per week might be able to accomplish a hobo’s hideout of an apartment if they pay everything for rent. Houses costing over $1 million, which were under $400k less than a decade ago? – thank you government of the rich for the unregulated rich. Rents equaling a portion of housing values: thank you government… Government bitching about a behind-the times-wage hike? You noticed? You didn’t drink the kool-aid.
5) Result: poo.

As to #2:
1) Protesters are important. More so than you. You are a wrench in their machinery if you question their integrity, sources, and sources of funds while they demand openness from everyone else.
2) If you are not wildly supportive, you are perceived as traitorous and thus open for the many varieties of indignities which they mistakenly term free expression…. unless it is done to them to express a sense of outrage that bellowing belligerents constitute anything more than an insult to intelligence, fact gathering, and a mature understanding.
3) Liberals, i.e. politicians, believe protesters have a valid right to protest. Each confuses this with enshrining the lowest common denominator as a measure of valid and balanced civil disobedience, with the politicians licensing the protesters who make the news which outrages people who complain to the politicians who promise change.[see #3 above for results]
4) Result: poo.

Now imagine this broken system replicating itself throughout everyday life and attitudes engendered by the turd chewing media feeding the herd.
Think of it spreading through academia, university campuses, the arts, music, the practitioners of poetry, grocery clerk geniuses, neuro-linguistically challenged moms {the last three categories being practically inseparable}, spastics on fire who insist they deserve Canada Council and Ontario Arts’ grants for interpretative dance.
Along with venal attempts by the same people to guarantee their jobs by granting money and thus legitimacy to publishing houses of craven wankers too cowardly who with subtlety and nuance establish a tradition of greater and suspect quality by their support for original and independent artists (i.e. schizophrenics without a trade except academia) or as they are known in the vernacular of The League For Flatulents: Tools For Schools.

i.e. Young Werther wishes to become a poet. He/She is told ‘see them? that’s how.’ Werther is your ordinary candidate for the ‘Special Arts.’ She/He imitates and achieves the distinction of being recognized by the Canada Council as One Who Writes Poetry Which No One Else Does Unless We Say So. He/She is thus a Poo-et. This is known as the Ren-And-Stimpy effect, aka The Beavis-And-Butthead College Of Non-Existent Truths: other Poo-ets say so.

As to #3:
You can no longer either walk anywhere or drive with impunity at any time of the day or night. There will always be some Paleolithic non-entity objecting to your existence, as if they owned the streets and the times.
1) Consider that you won’t be assaulted by dignified, mature people who have an understanding of the Golden Rule before its perversion into Piss On You. You will be spit on, kicked, punched, stabbed, shot, etc., by the Liberals’ Golems: those wandering sawdust filled Chuckies who ensure a need for law and order, and thus the politicians to fulfill the details.
2) Should you attempt to defend yourself by disabling the attackers (like political cowards and protesters they come in crowds), the cops can charge you. With what? With being at liberty, having self-respect, deciding to keep your integrity as a person, etc. (p.s. Make sure your taxes are paid up)
3) Result: poo.

This wasn’t written by me. It was dictated by a spirit entity known as ……… (words are inadequate to make such a distinction). I plead innocent as the transcriber in this instance of literary poolitics.




© Dean J. Baker

poems are posted to share, be shared, and entice those who love the work to owning the books from which they are excerpts –

****buy print book, add Ebook for .99****










Patrick Lane, a great Canadian poet – and his poem, Legacies










Patrick Lane, a great Canadian poet. In the tradition of Al Purdy, and Charles Bukowski for those who are unfamiliar with great Poetry. The designation I use – the Canadian part, anyway – to specify country of origin.

Of course as to great and to a degree greatly unremarked poets except or even including within the country of their origins I would have to also mention Kenneth Patchen, whose book The Journal Of Albion Moonlight is not strictly poetry yet is poetry at the core. Something along the lines of Louis Ferdinand Celine‘s Journey To The End Of The Night, or his great Death On The Installment Plan. A few books, along with Djuna Barne‘s Nightwood and a few of Anais Nin‘s, with Blaise Cendrar’s ought to be de rigeur reading ( especially so his Moravagine).

Now of course these have nothing directly to do with Patrick Lane, but they are indicative of what greatness inspires in the fact of a joyful association and the discoveries made along the way.

One of his poems from The Collected Poems of Patrick Lane


I’m smoking one of his cigars tonight
after this one
there’s only one left
a pack of cigars
Remington shaver
swagger-stick from the First War
and nothing else
legacies from the old man.

Once in all his eighty years
I saw him – father of my father,
passing my father to me
in one sudden moment
of a prairie night

and I sit here and smoke his cigar tonight
while I clean his earthly hairs
from the razor
sit and smoked
sit and consume legacies

© Patrick Lane

  • and that is just the first page…

Aslo, you might take note of his memoir – What The Stones Remember: A Life Rediscovered of which a few comments are:

“To read this book is to enter a state of enchantment.”—Alice Munro

“Patrick Lane has written a memoir of heartbreaking struggle that manages to be beautiful and encouraging, finding anchorage in what was once called Creation, the natural world and its unstinting promise of renewal.”—Thomas McGuane

“A tough, lovely book.”—Margaret Atwood

So do look for his work, and enjoy a great Canadian poet. Patrick Lane. Take note that there is even a book where 55 poets celebrate his work:

©Dean J. Baker

Holier Than

Much like an island, things here were becalmed. In the upper atmosphere, things would alter and change, but down to ground level, it was always the same. Familiar drama, corrupting comforts like tributes given to pharaohs, their slaves entombed with them, to serve even after death.

Achievement was not much recognized, nor heralded. Perhaps talked about, yet not a subject matter to be discussed because it was so unfamiliar, so deliberately unknown. The turmoil of sweat and labor, the endless dramas designed to occupy time and provide the skeletal frame of a relationship when they were really the detritus of whatever might have once been recognized in a moment and then dismissed, being processed as a means of growth, became the monuments to those minor, even tiny revelations which provided the potential of an impetus that became in petty minds one more obstacle of temptation denied.
The stillness was almost ceremonial, the often noted calm before the storm funnel that rose up a little, then settled downwards.

At one particular time, he gave out his phone number, on the other side of a piece of paper ripped in from the last pages of a notebook. On the other side the lyrics, or beginning lines for a new poem, which could have been either song, or poem.
The recipient, Priest, having asked for it, accepted it.
He thought no problem, he’ll recall those two lines, they’re so unique. “this is a poem instead of a kiss/for those of you who think of this……”

A time before he’d been welcomed into a different company, central to the city in which they all resided more or less. After the Priest’s gossip, it was a matter of being ostracized by other fatuous non-personalities, like the guitar player who used elevator boots to reach up to touch his own knees.

For the Priest, it was the fact that He was friends with the famous Poet. The Priest was a type of grocery clerk, ignorant of many styles of work in which he prided himself, had to ask what was a prose poem years before he would claim to have written any, in the midst of ingratiating himself to any and all who might bestow a favor.
The clerical collar was a noose, a stranglehold by which he would ordain his own halo, while establishing the means of his execution.

Not that he was actually a priest, just merely another name who enjoyed witnessing the intimacies by which he could climb further in his own estimation of turning neutrality at best, and bad habits at worst, into the favors of approval by which he imitated reality.

I recall, as a dispassionate observer, how when one to whom he professed friendship, down on his luck, had to sell some of his most prized possessions, his books, the Priest mocked and ridiculed.
“I bought some of your books,” observed the Priest, with a mocking grin. “You idiot, why did you sell them?”
The person to whom he was speaking took thought, and did not smash him into the sidewalk, though the Priest would never know this.
His reply, calmly, was “I had to eat.” To which the Priest never enquired what were the circumstances, nor did it ever cross his peanut shaped mind to apologize for his insensitive nature, and cruel delight.

I was there as well when the Poet said to him, let’s get some coffee in here, to which the Priest assented, and then proceeded to establish another point of ridicule due to the fact that the innocent Poet, wearing dark glasses, stated that he was plagued by migraines and contrary to rumor used coffee to chase them away, and determined to maintain momentum, would endure and keep going, using the darkness of the glasses to provide a measure of relief.
It was not at all his fault to maintain his identity as other than who he was, even if others mistook him for somebody famous. If asked, he would state, “I never think of myself as Him, all I have to do is look at my non-existent bank account and I know, if I were ever in doubt.”

Jealousy and hatred were the gathering storm’s elements, used by the Priest. That lonely Sunday afternoon after the note was passed between them containing the lyrics, the Poet had unknowingly dropped a pill he carried for migraines. When the woman harpie demanded of her sycophants who might have had this, and been so careless, the Priest was there to volunteer that he knew the Poet would never do such a thing, but he had confided his agony of migraines, so….

From there on the Priest also developed the lyric into a song with a woman. When this became a hit for her, he had likely even counseled himself that he had initiated the song. In fact, had to continue to tell himself that he had, while keeping in mind the mockery of the Poet to whom he professed friendship, while undermining him wherever he went. The Priest did not want to be seen for a moment as the Pretender he actually was, but surrounded by idiots and fools whom he had cultivated there was no danger.

One final thing was the Poet’s always forgiving nature again took him by surprise when he poked his head in the door of a tavern late one night and thought he’d see the scumbag who was supposedly performing.
As he opened the door, the Priest, fearful as always though he termed it superiority to himself, loudly mocked the Poet. “He thinks he’s so-and-so.”
The Poet, to himself, replied, “I’d rather think I was so-and-so, than dye my hair, have it arranged and conditioned, and believe myself Robert Plant. A great singer whom the girl with whom the Priest had happened to contrive a lyric was then going out with.

Last witnessed at a ceremony to remember a famous woman poet and playwright, the Priest smugly smiled and the Worm who had lied to the Poet simply stared, having misled him, and then ran from sight, refusing to even acknowledge his presence, due to the fact that the Poet saw the Worm had lied about credit for a book, been told that the Worm had tried to fuck his girlfriend, and then he had remonstrated with him by letter in whose reply none of what the Worm had done was denied nor acknowledged, just the statement that if it would make him a better Poet, go ahead and punch in the Worm’s loaf, remonstrating with the Poet that he had bought him dinners, and coffees all the time.
But then the Poet was great company. He even proclaimed a fine book title for his first book, The Poetry Hotel, he said. The Worm said if the Poet did not use it soon, he was going to steal it. And he did,  several years later, not informing the Poet of course.
The Poet, thought, when looking at those words, so you believe or have to tell yourself I am as low as you, that you think, have to think, I sold myself, as you have.
It seemed very real that these two backstabbing liars became friends.

The Worm was not as stupid as the Priest, even the Worm had a viable talent and awareness. The Priest was a vacuum, a virtual non-entity whose malice was masked by the grocery clerk he would always be.
A self-burrowing, betraying rot perversely turned in on itself in a masquerade of deceit and denial.


© Dean J. Baker

– excerpt from my forthcoming book…. – buy a book!

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