Poetry & Songs, by Charles Carreon

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.


Postby admin » Mon Sep 23, 2013 7:38 pm

Last Week, by Charles Carreon


In a movie last week
A man spilled soda on me
And I think his eyes were laughing
Like the forests of the moon
As the dictionary rambled
At the dawning of last week

Walking down the street, last week
I saw children on the sidewalk
Drawing pictures of their mothers
Purple chalk on quiet concrete
I ate sherbert mixed with sloe gin
During midday of last week

Turning on my room light last week
The wood floors burned with crimson
And it seems that they were laughing
Like the joker's mask of mourning
Chanting hymns of quiet sadness
In the evening of last week

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Postby admin » Mon Sep 23, 2013 7:39 pm

Law Firm, by Charles Carreon

I went to a law firm the other day;
They said to come down right away
So I ditched all my classes;
I put on my suit,
And applied some Aqua Velva to
my face to boot.
I borrowed the car
from my dear roommate,
Cause I knew that he wouldn't
want me to be late.
I took the elevator to the thirty third floor
And walked through the huge
oak double-doors.
It was a law firm,
A real big place,
With chrome decor from outer space.
It was a great big place,
With lots of magazines
And a woman with
a face from the fashion scene
brought me a cup of stale caffeine.
While I was chokin it down,
This guy came around;
Well he was tryin' to smile
But it looked like a frown.
He was lookin' around
and sniffin' about
Like maybe somebody
Didn't put the cat out.
It was a law firm
A really big place
With the big time bucks
That the big boys make.
The first guy I talked to
Was an a-sso-ci-ate;
Didn't say too much,
And his favorite line
Was "Excuse me, what?"
Then he took me down the hall
To this real stiff chick
With some real cold hands
And clothes that really fit --
She looked at my shoes
And she looked at my face,
And that second look said
"Boy are you outta place."
She talked about "the firm,"
And she talked about clients;
She looked me in the eye
And said "They're all corporate giants."
Yeah it was a law firm,
A scary place
Like a bad disease
Of the human race
So I said goodbye, ma'am,
I really gotta run,
Cause I'm a bit too young
To give up havin' fun
As I was walkin' out
They met me at the door,
And looked like they might pitch me
Out the thirty-third floor
But they were so polite
And said "We really understand,"
While what they meant was
"Boy are you outta hand."
It was a law firm
Ya know the kinda place --
They'll give you a job and
Think they own your face --
It was a law firm
A dangerous place
A bad disease
Of the human race.
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Postby admin » Mon Sep 23, 2013 7:41 pm

Let's Go Back to the Days of Dialup, by Charles Carreon


I grew up without the Internet
And I ain’t never found a use for it yet
Yep, a horse and buggy is good enough
For a person who needs to move their stuff

Yeah, let’s go back to the days of dialup
We’ll get all the citizens riled up
Remembering about the good old days,
Good enough for me is the way it should stay.

When I get a look at that Internet porn
It makes me wanna blow my horn
It’s mighty hard to look the other way
When every pretty face just wants to play

So let’s go back to the days of dialup
The folks around here are all riled up
It wasn’t this way in the good old days
So let’s turn back the clock and quit the rat race

Yeah they’re all wrapped up in this fiber net
Never seen no good from it yet
Too many bills already to pay
What’s a poor local fellow to say?

But let’s go back to the days of dialup
Me and my friends are all riled up
You don’t need nothing we don’t understand
And we all agree it was a terrible plan

They say there ain’t no solution, we can’t fix nothin’
Can’t fire nobody or get an answer to a question
They must think we’re stupid or just don’t care
How much we pay for light and air

So let’s go back to the days of dialup
All say “aye” and stand up
Don’t have to understand when you know what you’re doin’
And I’m pretty darned sure it’s not myself I’m screwin’

We’re headed back to the days of dialup
Better get used to sayin’ “giddy-up,”
’Cause the past was fast, but the future will be slower.
You can honk your horn, but we won’t pull over.
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Postby admin » Tue Sep 24, 2013 4:00 am

Lightning Bolt, by Charles Carreon

In the vast sky over the mountains
Dark clouds gather and threaten.
The mountains brood
and intone,
Basso profundo.

The stream glistens
in the tiny valley
like a rivulet of rain,
Its surface speckled with expanding circles.

A bolt of lightning,
Pure charge, through and through,
Thick as God's arm,
Reaches out and cauterizes the earth.

The sky remains untouched.
You can taste the raindrops
And the ozone on your tongue.
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Postby admin » Tue Sep 24, 2013 4:01 am

Lips, by Charles Carreon

Ooh! The ocean of
dreams parts and
swallows me without another
word, like opening lips
appearing from a sea of
quilted covers.
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Postby admin » Tue Sep 24, 2013 4:02 am

Lone Madman, by Charles Carreon


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
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Postby admin » Tue Sep 24, 2013 4:04 am

Loneliness, by Charles Carreon

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.
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Postby admin » Tue Sep 24, 2013 4:05 am

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.
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Postby admin » Tue Sep 24, 2013 4:06 am

Lorenzo's Parting Thoughts, by Charles Carreon

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.
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Postby admin » Tue Sep 24, 2013 4:07 am

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.
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