I

My name is Scott Baker.
I wear glasses,
I have reddish-blondish-brownish hair,
I have freckles
and a modest beard.

I am six foot one,
one hundred and eighty pounds.

I write poems about my problems
because I think they matter,
because I think I matter.

But I don't.

I matter to my friends and family,
but to you,
to the world,
to the universe...
to the fucking universe

I am a molecule.

Dust

There are no hills in Nebraska,
only dust
and flurries of snow in December.

I touched down alone.
In the plane
I saw helicopter search lights.

I told her about what I saw,
and she said
she didn't see a thing.

I asked her if she loved me,
and she said
she had only eyes for me.

I spent Christmas with her,
and she said
she couldn't be more happy.

We decorated the tree
and she
even let me hang the star.

We ate out every night
and she
wouldn't let me pay.

I exited the airport terminal
and she
cried for two hours.

I asked her if she loved me three years later
and she said
she didn't see a thing.

Bad Poem

So this poem is really pretty bad, I wrote it in like.... 30 seconds and I'm going to edit it as I type it on here so yeah.... it's kind of prose, by the way.

GRANT

When I went away to college, my parents sold my childhood home.
Nobody would buy it, so in an act of desperation they traded it for a mobile home and some amount of money.
The mobile home belonged to my eighth grade English teacher, Glenn Kenney.
He had four children, three boys and a girl,
I went to school with two of the boys.

In visiting my parents, I stay in what I presume to be one of the boys' former rooms.
I looked up at the ceiling today and carved into the cottage cheese was a name.
GRANT
There was a Grant in my high school,
he was an asshole to me and cemented in me my eternal hate for him and the name Grant.
He often spent time with the boys who lived here prior and therefore,
I can only assume it was his meaty, sweaty, sooty, fingers which scrawled his name into my parents' relatively new home.

Seeing this made me feel like he had some sort of personal malediction against my family and me.
How dare you desecrate our home with your filthy, poorly written name you unsophisticated scum?!
Obviously, he didn't do it out of any form of spite for me or my family due to the fact that this happened before my parents moved in,
but I like to think he did.

What brings someone to perform such an act in the first place?
You always gave my friends and me shit, Grant.
All you did was smoke weed and fuck with us after school,
and now I have to look at your ill-favored name on my ceiling.
GRANT

Last post I said to go to the myspace, but the facebook page for I Can See Everything is more active and attended to so........ go to that!
http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/I-Can-See-Everything/116413385040941?ref=ts

New Project

So my friend Victor and I decided to start an experimental music project based on my poetry which is a combination of spoken word and this kind of relaxing electronic music. Listen now please :)

http://www.myspace.com/icanseeeverythingmusic

Short

i invented a word for this one sentence poem. it has no title


The cold, biting air brings a welcome gift into my ensickened lungs.

Dry

I'm pretty much out of old poems, but I'll post more as I write new ones.

Bad

i really like this, but it's pretty bad haha

I'm Fragile

Paper mouth

Paper teeth

Paper tongue


Paper eyes

Paper ears

Paper mind


Paper heart

Paper lungs

Paper ribs


Paper stomach

Paper bowels

Paper shit.

Strange

i was going to post a different poem, but i decided it was more of a rambling than a poem. so here's this other one.

Entity

A thousand suns and a thousand moons
Circling my very existence
I am no longer human
I feel as if I am something greater
Something more than that which is known as all
I feel as if an entity
I exist between two planes
And I walk freely within both
A thousand suns and a thousand moons

Not A Poem

This Is Anything But A Poem

I wish there was something I could write about you
I wish there was anything
Anything to write about this situation
But there's not
There are no words gracefully flowing forth from my fingertips
Just FUCKS and SHITS barreling out of my mouth
You and I had it good
And I fucked it up
That's all there is to say
The only thing to possibly even begin to say
Is today is the day I lose myself.

Body

i actually really like this poem even though it's dumb. it doesn't have a title

I need a human body
So that I may carve it hollow
Climb my way within its ribs
And live inside of it
Finishing out my days
Vicariously through this new
Body

Twenty-Two

here's a poem i wrote about being 22

Year

Still hungry after all these years
Still craving after all these meals
Still climbing after breaking all these branches
Still dusty after crossing all these rivers
Still falling after hurtling all these boulders
Still hungry after twenty-two years
What have I to still climb for at twenty-three?

Ghosts

i fucking love this poem

Story

I wish my house was haunted
So I could talk to ghosts
I would ask them questions
And get their ghost advice
They'd give me real answers
And be completely honest
At least then I'd feel like I was getting somewhere
By talking to someone who isn't actually there.

Experimental

i experiment a lot. here's another

Only More

heart

ache

.

Crush

here's another old one about a stupid crush haha

Poem

So there's this girl I like
Well I don't so much like her
As I do hate her
Let me start over
So there's this girl I hate
Hate is sort of a strong word
But I hate her
I hate her because I like her
I hate her because I'm selfish
I hate her because she's not with me
I hate her because I like her
I hate myself for liking her
I hate her for making me hate myself
I hate her for making me unable to think about even beginning a conversation with even a single other fucking female because the only person I can fucking think about every single fucking day
Is her
And I hate her
Because I like her

New

here's a poem i wrote last night while trying to sleep

Past Present Future Past

The women of my life, none of them know
about my sordid past. The kind of past that
begs for a change of futures, but regails none. So
let them wonder about my past, a
life that cries for needing.

Crush

here's an old poem about a girl i had a crush on

Flame

She was at the party tonight
A crowded evening in a friend's backyard
A sea of separate words
Foaming together
But I noticed only her
She was absolutely beautiful
She possessed a different kind of beauty
She was a fire-spinner
Her specialty was a flaming hula hoop
I was transfixed on the flickering light circling around her perfect body
Every single curve of her fragile frame
Twisting in a separate order
Her thin arms weaving up and down throughout the orange flames
Her feet touching with the gravel beneath them
So delicately only her toes touched the ground
I was enamored but cautious to get close
So as not to get burned

Untitled

this is one of my favorites...

A focus of light
Blinking in the sky
Is that star signaling me?
A distant distress call
From another galaxy
Pinpointing the Earth
And signaling me.

Untitled

Thinking back on past mistakes,
The list is long
And scribbled.

Thinking back on past failed relationships,
The list is torn
And crumpled.

Thinking of my future failures,
The list is long
And scribbled.

It cannot be changed.
History repeats itself.

Untitled

Untitled

the supermarket is a breeding ground
a cess pool filled with young mothers buying sugar for their fat, hungry, bottom feeding children with their undeserved wellfare checks
stocking up on grease for the coming winter season
a family of grizzlies hibernating in a plastered cave
fighting over the last gristled cheese puff
sickening
america
land of the free
home of the brave
shelter of the slovenly

Short Experimental

here's an experimental piece. it's dumb

Girls

Girls.

Experimental

Cut Off Your Feet And Name Your Hands After Them

Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop.

Depressing Lame Poem

The Sun Is A Star

The night can get dark,
but the sun can get darker.
It rises every morning
to remind you you're still living.
When you're separated from the world,
all you want is night,
if only for the hope
of not waking up.

Short Poem

When It Rains, It Fucking Pours

There was a lightning storm the other night.
Part of me wishes I had been struck.

The Poetry

The Poetry

Of the thin blades of grass
Of the ants that walk them
Of the people step on each
Of the cars that drive them
Of the roads that take them
Of the ants that walk them.

Prose

here's a prose piece I wrote about a year ago

Lose/Lose Situation

Recently all I can think about is having a girlfriend. My mind is a skipping record "Need a girlfriend. Need a girlfriend. Need a girlfriend..." Unfortunately, said girlfriend has yet to be procured. The leaves are turning brown outside, but my brain is telling me it's spring. It seems any girl I assume to be single who so much as exchanges words with me instantly becomes a potential companion. Working outside in the cold, handing out pamphlets to children and their parents, demonstrating "The kind of cool stuff we have at Mad Science birthday parties!" I imagine dating the new girl I work with. Creepy, I just met her, and already I see us skipping through meadows hand in hand. Anything she says I take as she is interested in me. She offers me a ride home. We make small talk, either she's feigning interest or she's genuinely attracted to me. I strike out. "What are you doing tonight?" she asks. I reply "Probably just hanging out with my friends, what about you?" She responds with "It's my friend's going away party, we're going downtown." This could be taken as an invitation, and if I had more courage and initiative, I could be holding her hair back in an alley in no time. I don't. I thank her for the ride and leave. Bummer, going to be awkward at work next week. However, out of some strange alignment of the planets, she asks for my number. Good sign. I sit at a washed out computer screen in my apartment. I decide to text her. Things go well, we talk, and we seem to have a lot in common. Maybe she could be the girl my faux-spring-fever calls for. I try to get her to go to dinner with me or at least pay me a conjugal visit. She says she's "busy all the time." She may be busy; or she may be blowing me off. Probably the latter. I'm too pushy with her "Come over... You should come over... Come over after work... Come over tomorrow..." Not good. She probably thinks me to be a mondo creep. I can't give up. I'll back off but keep texting her. I'll probably fuck up again and start pushing her more and more until she snaps and tells me to "LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE" in caps lock via text. I'll probably fuck up.

The Fucking Wilderness

Trees

Maybe I'll leave
for the woods.
Retreat
to the wilderness.

Maybe I'll leave
everything behind.
My clothes,
my iPod,
my phone,
my family,
my friends.

Maybe I'll live
in leaves and berries.
My only companions,
the raccoons,
the deer,
the bears,
the cougars,
the moose.

Maybe I'll bathe
in the most pristine of water.
The rivers,
the lakes,
the streams,
the ponds.

Maybe I'll sleep
under the stars.
Comfortable in soil,
rocks,
twigs,
dirt,
insects.

Maybe I'll take my clothes.
Maybe I'll bring a friend.
Maybe I'll only stay for a weekend.
Maybe I'll stay.

Cutup

This is a cut-up version of "Body Hymn".


Skin cells, expanding.

Breathe.

Hands and digits
weigh segregated.

Clavicles contracting,
meeting as anchors,
unable to bend.

Bones welded
beneath knuckles.

Every individual,
diminutive,
form-fitting,
inhaling,
exhaling
pore
conjoined on iron.

Hips clash together.

Skin,
drift from me.

Erotic

Body Hymn

Your bones breathe,
expanding,
inhaling each diminutive pore on my
skin.
Contracting,
exhaling every individual cell of my
skin.

Our clavicles meet and
clash
together, and our hips are
conjoined
together, welded as if iron.

The segregated digits of my
knuckles
bend and give way,
molding
beneath you.

My hands,
your anchors,
weigh you,
unable to drift from me.

Every last
sinew
of every last
muscle
reaches out,
capturing the tendons
buried beneath my
skin,

and we sing
together.

Persona 2

Here's another poem I wrote from the point of view of someone else.

Every Time

She's yelling again
I can't stand it
She's yelling
i'm nodding
i'm agreeing
i'm apologizing
She's yelling
I'm driving to her sister's house
And she's yelling
She's yelling
She hasn't stopped
In three years
Of matrimonial bliss
She's yelling
I'm ignoring
She's yelling
I'm driving

I could kill her now
I could kill us both

She's yelling
I could swerve off the road
I could drive off a cliff
She's yelling
We're here
At her sister's house
We're in the car still

She's apologizing


She's smiling



I remember why now
Her smile is worth three years.

Beauty

Beauty Fades

Beauty is age,
pious and loving.

An old woman's hands,
folding in on themselves,

wrinkles on parchment paper skin,
crevasses cutting through freckled pores.

Gnarled fingers pressed,
dried petals on a withered rose,

extended from frail arms.
Fragile bones

move with fragile grace,
locked away

from all eyes save
God's.

Persona

This is a poem I did for my writing class in which we had to write from the point of view of someone different from ourselves.

Paper Company

Bill! What's goin' on, you dog you?
Yeah, I hear ya' man!

Cheryl... lookin' fantastic as always!

Thomas! How was your weekend bud?
Fucking asshole.
Sounds great guy!

Jesus, it's Chris. Nice fucking tie.
Chris! Great tie man! Where'd you get it?
What does he think this is? Fucking casual Friday?
Men's Warehouse? Really?
Figures.

Solitude in my corner office.
Biggest window on the floor.
What a fucking accomplishment.
Fake smiles get me by,
get them by me.
I guess that's what I get
for working at an office
for a paper company.
Everyone around me
is only paper company.

Sandra, would you send Chris in? I think I'm going to fire him.

This is about love... kind of...

How To Maintain A Healthy Relationship, Chapter 6: Routine

The sheets are
stained tarps
on the bed.

I approach her
with a loving look,
and a soft kiss
on her short-haired head
so as not to frighten.

I look into
her eyes
and split open
her legs
like a bovine's skull.

The moisture seeps out,
the blood,
the fluids,
and her gray matter.

She is penetrated
with my serrated edge,
like through her ribs.
And I saw,
and saw,
and saw.

She cries
and moans.
I cut pieces
out of her.

The perfume
of her open chest
permeates my nostrils.

The tarp
now drenched.

I slip
away from her,
and retreat
to wash my hands of this heifer.

New Beginnings

To commemorate the first post of my blog, I'm posting one of my first poems. Enjoy!

Cavities

My teeth are decaying
at an unexpected rate.

My dentate are a ghost town,
a small collection of former homes
hidden beneath a mossy wood.
Structures cast aside,

once well maintained and cared for,
now long lost in the depths of consciousness.

Windows are fracturing,
doorways collapsing.
Shingles are peeling,
porches folding.

I came upon this tightly knit community
of twenty-nine buildings,

eager to restore each one.
Am I too late?
Will the damage done to these neglected bicuspids
give way to their evident demise?

I hopefully can repair this once great civilization
before the plaster disintegrates

into the soft soil from which
they were built upon.