Poetry & Songs, by Charles Carreon

For the sake of ornament and illumination.

SONG

Postby admin » Mon Sep 16, 2013 5:55 pm

Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves, by Charles Carreon

(To the Tune of "Rhymin' and Stealin'" by The Beastie Boys)

Well, drivin' Buddhists crazy's what she's all about,
Talkin' so straight that they have to shout,
No sweet muffin with a daisy in her belly,
She's never once been called Cin-der-elly.
Liberating mystics of their counterfeit money,
They're chokin' on their bliss, lookin' pretty funny;
She got sixteen Siddhas on a dead man's chest
They're smilin' like their hopin' that she'll do the rest.

Plum crazy girl -- goes straight thru the ceilin',
She'll keep talkin' till they cap her --
She's rockin' and reelin'.
Rippin' at the reins -- breakin' down the gate
She's got your wagon, it's a jail break,
She's got the warden with a sock in his mouth
And she's headed for the badlands way down south,
Breakin' out bandidos from their stinking jails
They got no badges and they're off the rails.
They're loyal to her
They're loyal to fun,
And they got her back
When she has to run.

It's Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves,
Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves
Ambu Baba AND THE FORTY THIEVES
Ambu Baba AND THE FORTY THIEVES.

There ain't no words to end this story.
She's bound for freedom, fame and glory,
With hell on her trail,
With God payin' bounty
They'll hang her in the middle
Of Bumfuck County,

Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves,
Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves
Ambu Baba AND THE FORTY THIEVES
Ambu Baba AND THE FORTY THIEVES.

Well they say she took out for Apache country,
That there was smoke in the sky and very dusty,
Thunderheads risin' and tumbleweeds rollin'
The priest locks the church and the bells start tollin'.
And every now and then the children chant
The magic words that their parents said they can't,
Hopin' and prayin'
Singin' and playin',
Feelin' so naughty
That they just gotta say it,

Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves,
Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves
Ambu Baba AND THE FORTY THIEVES
Ambu Baba AND THE FORTY THIEVES
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POETRY

Postby admin » Mon Sep 16, 2013 5:58 pm

An Atlas of Her Body, by Charles Carreon

[Nature has an unerring weapon for controlling her children -- sex. The mysterious attraction of one body for another can never truly be fathomed, rather it is the sea upon which all human beings are borne. As a young man, troubled very much by the emotion of attraction for beautiful beings and things, I became quite worn out with the insistence of my own impulses. Perhaps in an effort to dry out my relationship with attraction, I created this Borgesian poetic essay extolling lust as a scholarly pursuit. Somewhat tongue in cheek, yet lovingly crafted, it is a work that I enjoy to this day.]

Image

An Atlas of her body
would be a thousand volumes long;
Though sages might ponder it for
centuries, taking notes and reasoning,
They would never agree on their
findings.

If an atlas of her body were
composed, those who perused it
Would become filled with wanderlust.
Their eyes would become glazed
And they would be useless for all
else.
If they were prevented from setting
Out upon their journey, they would
Simply fade away, undone by a dream.

If, by some miracle, an atlas of her body
Were found amid the ruins of some
Ancient city, secreted away in a casket
Studded with jade, wrought of gold,
Wonder would spread over the earth
Like a cloud of golden dust;
There would be found hope
In the hearts of skeptics.

If, by examining the intense and
unyielding light at the atom's heart,
It might prove possible to discover
an atlas of her body,
Many would strive to focus their
sight so finely,
Thinking blindness small price to pay
to find one's hand, at last,
Upon the Book, though yet unfree
to read the page

Of all that set upon the quest, none
return.
Perhaps they gain calamity for all
their pains;
Perhaps each one is overwhelmed
by the vastness of the task,
And turn aside to set their eyes
upon some smaller prize.

For a certainty many are lost,
Steering under strange stars for so
many nights,
Disdaining charts where all such hopes
are false,
Attending to the weary waves, losing
track of days and nights,
Wandering endlessly, while we,
Left behind, are still waiting,
Waiting for news, waiting for our
Heroes to return,
Waiting and hoping for that dreadful
treasure, the Atlas of Her Body.
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POETRY

Postby admin » Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:00 pm

An Ideal Achieved, by Charles Carreon

Winter's the time most geometric
When things, divested of their flesh,
Reveal the simple symmetries of bone.

The hogwire fence, its horizontals crushed
Together, exhibits a complex surface of invisible
Planes, windows to light and air,
evolving from each other.

The pure white rhombus of a salt-box roof
Evenly covered with inches of snow, rounded
All along the edge, lies silent, an ideal achieved,

Displayed against the mutating density
Of gray sky-surface. And if a bird
Were to sing now, its voice would find
No competitor.
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SONG

Postby admin » Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:03 pm

Android, by Charles Carreon



Image

Anesthetize him
Lay him on the table
Impress his shoulder
with a stocking label
Give him some saline--
'bout four c-c's
He needs some wheels
to replace those knees
He'll be so thankful--
never have cold feet
Just oil the rollers
and they never squeak
 
He'll be an android, android--
better than a man
An android, android--
part of the plan.
An android, android
well built and well adjusted
An android, android
employees to be trusted.
 
Remove the cranium cap--
Set it in the pan
We'll be replacing it
As quick as we can
Insert a clock in the occipital node
He'll always know just when it's time to go
He'll never waken
too late for work--
He'll wake at seven
and sit up with a jerk.
Connect the stimulator
to the pleasure center
It's cheaper than dope
and works much better--
Now wire up those jaws
in the usual way--
He'll eat through tubes
and he won't have much to say
Just mopping floors and swabbing
toilets every day
He'll be so happy in his android way--
 
He'll be an android, android--
better than a man
An android, android--
part of the plan.
An android, android
well built and well adjusted
An android, android
employees to be trusted.
 
Implant infra-sensors
in the optic nerves
So night or day
he will be there to serve
Graft laser blasters to his index
fingers,
He won't be too attractive,
But we're not building night-club singers.
Just you imagine what his
mother would say,
She'd be so proud to see him here
this way,
Her work improved on--
deficiencies amended,
He's so employable
we ought to be commended!
 
He's an android, android--
better than a man
An android, android--
part of the plan.
An android, android
well built and well adjusted
An android, android
employees to be trusted.
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POETRY

Postby admin » Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:06 pm

Angels Do Not, by Charles Carreon

Image

there is a furor in the desert there is a flower in
the dark
there is a mind raging inside the flower garden
and lascivious lilacs are pouting passion
with rotting lips and smiles that are drunk

there is you there is me
there is a crescent moon cradled in the trees

I learn to walk on heights
I learn to walk on water
I learn not to look down
I learn it doesn't matter

when there is love there is danger
there is love there is danger

I was born with the furious flowers I was born with
the thorns

when I was born the chain was hanging loose
so I shrugged it off and walked away
later on they used it to bloody my face
I walked away

angels do not live in the alley
angels do not push shopping carts
angels do not wish for milk and honey
angels do not die for lack of money

angels are perfect but I am not one
angels do not make mistakes but they are very careful
I make mistakes I am not very careful
angels occasionally smile but they are bashful

I learn to walk on heights
I learn to walk on water
I learn not to look down
I learn it doesn't matter
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POETRY

Postby admin » Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:08 pm

A Cry of Vultures, by Charles Carreon



Dreams die hard,
clutching in the silent air,
mouths gaping, eyes that stare.
Dreams die hard,
limbs unravel in streaming smoke,
A strangled cry, a gasping choke,
The Good Physician suppresses hope.

Dreams die hard,
like water drying in the empty street,
the kiss of Wisdom is like summer heat,
The passing cars don't really care,
Like mahasiddhas who have cut their hair.
The mist of folly's lost in empty air.

Dreams die hard.
all the windows in the house break,
letting in the soft moonlight.
In the stone garden, the sound of water
falling out of sheer delight--
A cry of vultures and they're off in flight,
On craggy peaks now gazing down
A span of miles to the burning ground.
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POETRY

Postby admin » Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:10 pm

Architecture, by Charles Carreon

Image

I have this theory
that the largest proportion
of suicides are the result
of bad architecture.
 
Just think of all the people
who snuff it in seedy motel rooms
or jail cells.
 
Inadequate lighting is another thing.
There are probably thousands of
people who'd probably still be
walking around today if they'd
just had a room with a window.
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POETRY

Postby admin » Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:11 pm

Autumn Poem, by Charles Carreon

The stars above us shine
like a blessing ...
Unchanging in their motion --
Which is not their motion,
but ours -- no matter,
If one moves, all move,
and so
The seasons change,
and through the shifting days
We strive to remember our names.
 
We walk a zigzagging line
that meanders and crests
Over breaking waves and even
as we strive to make it straight
It wavers
and breaks apart and
The image of a perfect moon
splintered to a million shining pieces ...
 
There's no way
to recreate perfection;
It forms again of itself,
like water settling in the palm of your hand
There's no way to return the
way you came.
The way you came is gone,
lost absolutely
Where the waves kept rolling on.
 
Epilogue
 
When there's no memory to bind,
The days come undone.
They fall like autumn leaves,
one upon the other;
It does not matter,
Snow will soon come to cover.
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SONG

Postby admin » Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:14 pm

Baby Boom, Kaboom, by Charles Carreon



Image

Click here to play "Baby Boom, Kaboom," sung by Charles Carreon

Well I was born in 1956
Old Kruschev was up to his tricks
He was poundin' with his goddamn shoe
Says he's gonna make a mess of you

Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom

We all lived behind a nuclear fence
With Big Daddy for our President
Old Harry Truman sure gave 'em hell
Set the Japs back for a spell

Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom

When the smoke cleared we had Marshall Plans
Transplanted Nazis and Vietnams
We had a global weapons trade
A solid dollar, we had it made

Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom

We blamed Hitler for the holocaust
Though IBM kept Hitler's books
We founded Israel as East New York
And made it fat on Congressional Pork

Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom

Well we're the last blast of levity
The End of the Century
We watched as Year 2000 blew by

Now it's a My Space reality
The Internet's a Dollar Tree
We do a little crank on the side

But if you ever need a weapon
Then you should do your shoppin'
In good old sleazy D.C.

Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom

We've hated Castro now for fifty years
For taking back what we had stole
Our criminal government talks democracy
Won't never come in from the cold.

Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom

You might think your vote's been stolen
You might think you lack control
There might be pills to cure this feelin'
They might just hollow out your soul.

Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom

So now it's biotechnology
And cosmetic surgery
We're on a permanent, botox high.

We got terrorist bombers
Takin' out our Hummers
And we graph it out statistically

The stock market's up
The interest rate's down
With a little more cash
We'll turn this whole thing around

Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom

Now the planet's getting too damn hot
On account of what we never thought
Keep on burnin' shit night and day
Can't go on forever that way.

Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom

So are you counting your retirement funds?
And in the future will we need more guns?
Is AIDS in Africa a concern of mine?
Is the human genome the new Frankenstein?

Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom

Well we need to save the water
Before it gets much hotter
Or the forests aren't gonna survive
Well we could live underground
Or on the dark side of the moon
Or scan ourselves on microchips
And all become cartoons

Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
Baby Boom, Kaboom
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POETRY

Postby admin » Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:19 pm

Backroads Driver, by Charles Carreon

[Every generation thinks it is special. Apocalypse is always in vogue. When you can't make the world work, you hope it all goes to hell in a handbasket, because then you'll be no worse off than anyone else. Call it anarchist's revenge. When I was a young man, my friends and I lit out for the hills of Southern Oregon, in hopes of finding skinny-dipping, long summer days and big blue skies, easy living, milk and honey, no need for money. You can bet we didn't find it. No, instead we found shoddy living accommodations, bad roads, hostile neighbors and pickups, I mean people who would shoot bear for God's sake. On the other hand, you might see a mountain lion, certainly bobcat, and the coyotes could drive you plumb deaf when a big full moon came rising up behind Pilot Rock like a spotlight illuminating the entire valley. So it was mystical. So were we.]

Colestine?
Pretty much like the rest of the earth.
Dirt, trees, grass and sky. Clouds that come and go.
Wind blowing. In the morning, birds sing. Sometimes,
at night, coyotes howl. Later on, I will say things
more specific, but you should remember this, that it is
not different, not in any important way. What is really
important is how much it is the same as other places.

The road is bad. Most people will say this. I do not
say it is bad until winter turns it into three miles of
churned shit, but late at night it can wear me out. But
it is the boundary line, the essential demarcation
between town energy and country energy. When your tires
hit the paved road something clicks in your body -- you
accelerate the car and shift into third. Down the road
a mile, the mailbox may have something in it, then onward
to the business in town.

That night, when your tires roll off the pavement onto the
rough, uneven gravel of Colestine road, something in your
body is released. As your headlights illuminate the
winding road and the underbranches of the trees, as you
downshift into second to keep the washboard from ripping
the wheels off your car, you enter a different zone.
The zone of the backwoods driver. Drive on.
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