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.
On a streetcorner in history There’s a lonely figure standing His hands shoved in his pockets His face uncomprehending
What’s going on inside that head With eyes in hollow sockets He loads himself with anger And takes off like a rocket
Now history will know his name In infamy, he’ll take the blame He’s locked and loaded, target set, And smokes a final cigarette
He’s a lone madman Takin’ matters into his own hands He pulls the trigger Others fire Like a bunny caught in razor wire He’s a lone madman Part of someone else’s plan A sacrificial effigy To hijack human destiny
He’s small of stature, Large of heart Determined he will play his part His mind is like a pistol grip To those who know to seize on it
Maneuvered into place with care Convinced to do what none would dare He’s handled like a dumb device That will do the job and pay the price
Now history will know his name Who cares if he is called insane His eyes are fixed, his jaw is set A human shark in a wire net
He’s a lone madman Takin’ matters into his own hands He pulls the trigger Others fire Like a bunny caught in razor wire He’s a lone madman Part of someone else’s plan A sacrificial effigy To hijack human destiny
Who set him up? Who took him down? Who’s headed for another town? With his knock-down rifle And expense account? So much cash he doesn’t need to count? Who calls the shots? Who makes the plans? Who picks the targets That must bleed Who teaches the assassin’s creed
To lone madmen In Dallas, Athens, Salvador Who feeds their madness more and more He builds the bomb They light the fuse As it ignites they’re consumed Another lone madman Who didn’t have a plan Just a sacrificial effigy To hijack human destiny
Another lone madman He didn't have a plan Just a sacrificial effigy To hijack human history
Loneliness, you swayed gently in a long skirt, Looked up, breathed words, cast your spell, and waited for it to take effect. You had not long to wait, I was eager for fulfillment of illusion and not insensible to flattery. Time passed, too fast, but enough to fit one foolish act after another, making a history out of the barest vignette. Oh Loneliness, the name of you, the thought of you, your image, your face and time and place, As blood flows from a wound that's deep, as surely shall pain follow the memory of you.
Longing Lament at Eventide in Chinese Style, by Charles Carreon
A blue-gold flower is blooming in the evening wind. I have been so long without you now, I forget whether you left by the eastern or the western road. Why is it that the wind must come down the mountains like this, To sway the willows at dusk? Perhaps if it could stop blowing I could begin to forget.
Life, the real dance of passion is happening today. No recess time declared, The fashion is to play and play and play. With the hated in the second show, And risk to self at the Intermezzo, Eating dainties in the opal glow.
It's a right wicked assembly, is it not? With the heirs and pretenders Pushing for a spot, With the ladies in waiting and the magistrates toying with their hair bobs and their delicates.
Listen, glisten, it's the price of admission, No cunning or guile is excessive. Feathers, flowers, idle hours, my darling You look so expressive. Drag out the regalia for a sweet saturnalia, and call in the freaks from the woods. Well one night in Sevilla, Ya' know it won't kill ya' Like a weekend in Granada could. That's good.
Now set down your knives, the meal's not served yet, And the more you wait, the more hungry you get, And pleasure deferred Is pleasure enhanced to the pitch of higher set, let's get Involved now ladies and gentlemen -- those waistcoats are confining And corsets still more yet, But the masks should stay in place Lest we get unconfused And pleasure be aborted Or anyone refuse. We'll rock now.
Do you get the meaning? Do you get the treat? Do you hear the fire squealing on your street? Do you hear the breaking of the garden gate? Do you hear their twisted voices singing songs of faith and hate? Those scum know how to rock.
At our pleasant little party The debutantes in line Hold out their crystal goblets for a sip of wine, Give up their delicate garments For the promised price Give up their tender bodies On a bed of ice. They're going to learn how to rock.
Now the iron-worker's asking A question of the priest Who's cleaning out his dinner From between his twisted teeth: "Did you ever hear the stories What they do in there? Do it to our children Well you know it's hardly fair. Do it with impunity Do it day and night. How can God abide it? You know that it's not right." And the priest says smiling cruelly "You're a very saintly man," And walking both together He takes him by the hand, says "Let's get the Devil by the old short hairs Hang him up to squirm With his hooves in the air, Convict that hairy bastard In the holy cross-hair sights, Eliminate the problem In one sweet, bloody night." That bastard surely can rock.
I found my flower in the pale moonlight Her shade of lipstick was absolutely right, Her powdered cheek was exquisitely fair, And while I stood there Wondering how to dare, She turned to me and blew a kiss through the air. Her curled hair rose like a coronet, Still more adorned her shoulders in ringlets, Soft breasts arched up with stays More lovely yet. I pledged my kingdom as our eyes first met. That girl could rock.
She was a prize worth killing for, And at her word I would do much more, Cheat, lie and steal, and poison too, When it's a matter of the blood, you do. Fifteen years later On my deathbed too soon, The shadows cruelly creep around the room, Those I have schemed to bring to benefit Have twice betrayed me and I feel regret. Those pale bodies on those beds of ice, Those bloody trinkets and my antiseptic knife, The scent of evil that has tracked me there, No message waiting after all these years. Oh gentle victims Who had been my loves, Can't speak a word of mercy in my name, I broke you all upon the wheel of passion And all your kindness Like your blood's been drained. If only I could turn the knife upon myself. Cut out this heart of cruelty. Expose it to the sun and let the life run down my arm. Save all of them from me and me from harm. If I could warn them I would be right back -- Dark-browed minions shake their heads, My tongue goes slack. Doors open wide for me that no one else can see. My turn to rock.
Love Letter to Cottonwood Creek (West Fork), by Charles Carreon
Gathering of many smaller flows, of trickles and drips, all proceeding from somewhere above, from the peak of sloping granite we call Mount Ashland -- Down in Hornbrook they depend on you for all their water -- Up here we splash in hollow bowls of rough, rust colored rock. Nearby the flow's exposed seams of grey clay that crumbles to make a nice, rough soap or body paint, or just lies there getting soft on the bank. There's seats of sculpted sandstone and a bathtub for children, and a short, rough slide, all literally a stone's throw from a logging road: for naked hippies only; we know your secrets, Cottonwood, you can't hide them.
I've found the cool, fresh spots where deer make the damp earth smooth, resting intimate with you in a narrow, steep ravine shaded with willows. I've sat next to where two flows meet to make you, and listened to the sound of their union. I've walked further up and seen your tributaries blocked with logs and also the shade stripped off where forty-foot pines and cedars stood, protecting from the sun's heat the tiny, vital flow that is yours by right. I've looked at the skidder tracks where tall, slender trees were dragged away in chains. Only the crooked ones, the twisted ones, the dwarfed and gnarled ones are left, proving the truth of the Taoist's argument.
Oh, Cottonwood, I know you're all right, and you'll make it even though you dried up altogether this summer for the first time in years, You're running now at least eighty gallons a minute, And I love you and all your rocks and boulders lying bare in the steep ravines; I love how you make dams and pools out of rotten old snags; I love you and your oaks and alders that grow so close to the crumbling bank that in rainy times they sometimes fall into you or perhaps clean across, making bridges across the muddy torrent that is you in midwinter.
Further down, where you earn your name giving life to white-barked cottonwoods with leaves that whisper, exposing silver-dollar undersides, down there you're some else's, But here at the West Fork I know your ways; I've spoken intimately with you by means of cups and buckets, We've held long-distance conversations through the hose of the waterpump; You've washed my dishes and my body and those of my children innumerable times with your pure, clear hands, And in the midst of summer heat I can lay my head in your lap while you pour a stream of water over it, washing out the heat and the thoughts with a roaring of bubbles and wet sound
The cold wrings me out and pulls me together, clears my eye and washes the dust from my ears; I can hear you then and I listen for true words that no one understands.
I think perhaps that love is like this, that I give myself to you walking barefoot up your long, straight shallow stretches, slipping on the smooth rocks, and I won't think about how I heard there once were trout in you before Fruitgrowers built a dam they needed to use you -- I won't think about it, Cottonwood, as if it meant that you were losing ground: I'll remember the petrified branches scattered on your banks, And the ancient whispers I heard among the alders when I touched them, As if I'd been stirring Grandmother's bones, and I'll remember then that your young face is ancient. I won't cry for your wounds: I won't disturb the spirits with my foolish crying, Cottonwood; I'll just be quiet, Cottonwood, I who breathe briefly, here with you who will be flowing long after I am gone.
Waiting for the impulse, The real move, Is so hard ... You know what you want to do You know what you have to do, But to actually feel like You and the doing are now One at point "A" is something Else again.
So, no genuineness, No spontaneity, No taste of pure impulse On your tongue.
Instead, the bland flavor of obligation fulfilled, The comfort of avoiding risk, The pat on the head From the familiar God.
Today, a cascade of energy Will radiate from the sun, And just as it happens, A drop of it will bless The earth. So faithful and regular, The sun has no sense of duty.
Borrowing the magician's hat, and upturned cuffs, And a certain flair with the audience, Introducing my lovely assistant, Invisible as ever but lovely nonetheless, I present myself to you As what I am.
For my opening and closing act tonight I will be everybody and somebody And nobody and you. I will examine parallelograms, enteogens, exorcism ... Making reference to the placement of furniture In your living room.
I will tell you the story of a broken heart and of the girl who broke it more thoroughly.
I will tell you how my lovely assistant came to be.
We will walk till you are lost in the mirror-land of mutating forms.
You will feel desire pulling you on through Colored sand, rainbow fountains, Drifting clouds, Across valleys perfect and serene.
You will journey far and re-emerge to Red lips chromed steel, Cold leather.
You will greet the mirror, Motherlover, angeldoubter ... Poison popsickle sucker, Lick and roller, Tide rider ... A ship burns on the sea at midnight, And she is among the dead.
A clinging mist chills the harbor, An old man's eyes scan the waves.