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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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
[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.
In the City of New York The pigs grow huge They wear hundred dollar ties And pin stripe suits They never get slaughtered ‘Cause they own the joint They cook the books With PowerPoint
Oh yea, Bankers from Hell You heard me Bankers from Hell
In the City of New York The pigs are smart They put whole countries In their shopping cart They don’t have curly tails They use American Express And the way they treat us all is Priceless
Oh yeah, Bankers from Hell You heard me Bankers from Hell
They got banker’s names They play banker’s games They get bonused big To make bad loans They say they’re not members Of the Skull and Bones
Oh yea, Bankers from Hell Wearing pinstriped suits Tailored in Hell
Charles is a quick brown fox, jumping over the lazy sunset, making eyes at the fries, Treating the Christmas maidens To ice cream and dried dreams, While the entertainment magazines Promote brand-new spastic machines That run wild in their butler uniforms All day, then settle down at night On their patios with cold cans Of Spaghettios, And never, ever touch the remote.