Identified as a trouble maker by the authorities since childhood, and resolved to live up to the description, Charles Carreon soon discovered that mischief is most effectively fomented through speech. Having mastered the art of flinging verbal pipe-bombs and molotov cocktails at an early age, he refined his skills by writing legal briefs and journalistic exposes, while developing a poetic style that meandered from the lyrical to the political. Journey with him into the dark caves of the human experience, illuminated by the torch of an outraged sense of injustice.
Why Ramones play like they do: To destroy the enemies of human freedom.
Why it sounds so good: Full-spectrum sonic sun pulses pure crystalline idiot bliss, kicks nirvana into overdrive.
Why it's played so fast: To harmonize with the buzz of human anxiety in this smoke-filled age. To give you the speed to escape.
Why it sounds so harsh: To subdue conflicting emotions and eradicate fear.
What you can do with it: Cut LA in half with one clean stroke, Raze Century City with a backhand swipe, Vaporize the Hollywood sign with a glance, and blow away all eight lanes of the 10 freeway with a single puff of breath.
Practical wisdom, 'swhat I say. Practical wisdom everyday. Practical wisdom like a pocket flask or a Zippo lighter Ready when you call and you don't have to fight it
Practical wisdom like a little boy's hand in his daddy's grip Hold on tight Never slip
Practical wisdom like a momma's arms Hold so strong To keep away harm
Practical wisdom like a maiden's smile all sweetness and innocence for a little while all truth and consequence after many a mile
Practical wisdom like a ploughman's palm rough and callused from always keepin' on Work till sunset Rise at dawn
Practical wisdom like a policeman's gun Always in the holster Never pulled for fun
It's night in the West Wing The lights are still burning In an oval office A man walks alone He's weighed down with worries Oh you'd like to think Troop movements and spending The war neverending Whether old Scooter Libby Is going to sing.
But you would be wrong, then He picks up the phone And asks the woman who answers, "Has Colin gone home?"
"Well why would you ask that?" He says, "Just a joke" "My whole foreign policy Went up in smoke"
"Last week in Jordan It was such a thrill This sleeping with Laura's A bitter pill."
President Evil, can't understand If killing's good for the economy Why isn't it right?
Why do they plague him With tiresome demands The haters who hate him Just don't understand.
He has a vision He has a plan He's going to start surging Like a real man.
He has his puppets He pulls all the strings Chalabi, Alawi, Maliki And friends
We've got all the oil now We'll just rig the vote now Wheel the last of the cash Right out the back door
President Evil, wonders sometimes How it's all gone so well, Yet he's not done yet,
Let them rejoice now He'll bring the House down When he picks up His veto pen.
Pelosi should learn how To just shut her trap How can you trust An Italian like that?
But Karl says she's got her Tit in a ringer She can't cut off spending That's vote suicide
Yes President Evil knows he's got it right Depend on the stupids And call darkness light
He can't be worried By haters who vote The people who loved him Preferred to stay home
Besides, they're still paying Like donkeys they're braying That honor's not cheap So to Iraq they must go.
President Evil, if you only knew He's as sweet as the sun on a long afternoon His kisses like honey His ass smells like money That's why people who lick it Can fill a big room.
President Evil, will not be dethroned For evil endures Like a dinosaur's bones You may not realize it May think you despise it But it's waiting for you Wherever you roam.
President Evil may be the right man For evil tasks We just can't understand
So hush now my baby I'll sing sweet lullabies While President Evil Destroys those we despise Buries their faces And stifles their cries.
Professor Dee What do you see? In this temple Of mystery A shaggy bear A scary guy A drunken poet A slashing knife You don't play games You've got three wives Playing dominoes And sipping tea Your cart broke down One rainy night And now you're Stuck here with A mystery you've Been meaning to Solve for some time So let's get down And make some notes Got to be careful Someone tried to kill you But your wife, the #3 Had wrapped your Head in orange peels That the other wives Then concealed Under your hat So when someone Went and hit you on The head You weren't dead You had some wine You thought some more You interviewed the Poet who was drunker Than before About the Body of The Abbot, was he Poisoned, tell me more?
Maps grow out of darkness, Negotiating that (we hope) ever-expanding perimeter of understanding out of nothingness,
Using fingers, eyes, ears, To probe, search out, define, delimit The actuality of what is there and Freeze its meaning in a picture.
The early maps of Terra Had so much incognita, Like a real woman, Essentially unknown.
The old maps look organic, A continent, like a mass of cauliflower, Or an undersea sponge, The rivers like veins, pumping the sea.
Suffering from relative blindness, Or blindness to relativity, The old cartographers were handicapped And forced to imagine the contours of the shorelines.
Hence, Africa, in the shape of a papaya -- Old maps fail to depict the contours properly, The confident assertion of the land, The invasive penetration of the sea.
So much for those who tried to map the known -- Their talents refined with the ages, But at last the sattelite eclipsed them all, Giving any stupid eyeball the whole story in a wink.
Were we wholly blind, Truly sightless, what would we imagine the world to be? Precisely the riddle Of psychic cartography.
[Well, Merry Christmas, Boys and Girls. I hope you've all been good, because Santa is on his way, and the Air Force is reporting. This is Lt. Col. Merriweather from NORAD reporting that we have just sighted an airborne sleigh crossing the dew line. It appears to be drawn by reindeer, and piloted by a jolly looking fellow in a red and white suit ...
... STATIC! ...
No, what is that?
It's not Santa, it's, it's ... Oh, my God ... it's going to tear the Internet a new asshole!
BOMB!]
Well he used to be a pterodactyl up in the sky, Tearin' people's heads off, and eatin' their eyes, But now he's done a change-up, Got a new disguise -- All Points Bulletin: Look out for this guy!
He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks, Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks, Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick, Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.
Particularly dangerous to boys and girls Who play with computers in the virtual world He claims to be the hero of the human race, A relief from their cubicles and bookin' their face.
He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks, Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks, Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick, Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.
His prehistoric origin's a mystery -- Did he escape from the lavatory? Was he made by the Pentagon and NSA A living drone that shoots mind rays, Makin' zombies of his followers -- Internet slaves!
He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks, Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks, Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick, Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.
When cornered he will strike back with a vicious blow, There is no depth to which he will not go. Do not attempt to apprehend -- Type "King Kong," then hit Send.
He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks, Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks, Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick, Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.
He can revert to his original form at will. X-Men got nothin' he can't kill. Only a simian of similar size Can pluck the Pterodactyl out of the skies.
He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks, Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks, Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick, Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.
Rain Heard Outside the Open Window of the Motel Room, by Charles Carreon
Sweet passion, Now the rain comes down, The plashing rivulets enchant the ear, the night air pauses and tastes itself, branches dripping, water gathering in hollows, marked with glints of moonlight -- In every niche of water -- A Moon.
oh I think and reese's cups we are mellow chocolate people with peanut butter centers so creamy smooth We are eight in a car we feel just like a mobile snackbar two for a dime and reese's cups we are and headed for where? out to the darkness in a candy car with a failing transmission could it be for lack of orange juice? out of the car now walking for a long time only six reese's cups now two we left back in the car loving and melting together On to the castle With big power lines beside us babbling their high tension talk the very finest music we listen then stagger on feeling melted by the moon just stumbling along and wondering just what are those little things all over the ground? your flashlight and oh god! they're really there and look like octopi we walk on and go through a very strange dry lake looking like the moon and our feet frozen we stagger to the truck and ho there is the candle and let's build a fire we do and it is a very nice fire with red and white honeycombs and blue fringe ah a patriotic fire! we sit about and warm ourselves and watch the fire acting strangely then I stand and say to reese's cup Liz we're gonna have'ta go and she says yeah the sun's got an hour to go yet before it's gotta get up so Fred shows us the road and the power lines and Liz and I go floating down the road so happy together and our chocolate alive our peanut butter vibrant!
Summer woods, floating with dust Shafts of bright sun split deep shade between tall trees: cedars, pines
Forest floor mulched thick with needles and dry leaves crackles brittly underfoot: a bronze and copper carpet
This butterfly, black-specked, cinnamon winged, Hangs from a long-stemmed grass flower, purple-petalLed, dipping low with the weight Of this pretty, nectar-loving bug with wings Spread flat as those in a collecting case. Together they dip heavily as a breeze lifts and settles them on a draught.
This green, delicate, segmented leg belongs to the spider, clinging to the swaying stem, Clutching the pretty creature at the neck with strong mandibles.
The butterfly's eyes: dull, empty. Its body, dry and hollow, like paper.
Released, the bright corpse flutters to the ground, Softly irridescent in the leaves.
Autumn comes, colors, greys, winds. Scraps, slivers and Rich expanses of blue sky Filled with transparent, beautiful light, The sun, floating, liquid as a reflection in a pond And all of us aimless as leaves scattered by the breeze ... In love with the time, the space, Stretching in every direction unmoving.
And everything that moves, Wind, leaves, evergreen boughs, the sun, the shadows, Moving in the same direction, a river flowing steadily to the mouth of the falls where each separate thing takes the plunge, dissolving into the roar as the sun's pure light breaks open -- A ball of miracles -- Gleaming fragments fill every eye with no end of intricacy, showing what's hidden inside, Leaving us pierced through with wonder, Transfixed by something lovely, clear, complete.