(dedicated to Gary Webb, Judy Barry, Danny Casolaro, and all the other victims of dirty wars against not only human freedom, but basic dignity)
Multiple gunshot suicides, Too many goddamn of them. Multiple gunshot suicides, What do you think about them?
Two bullets to the head, That muthafucka’s dead. You can tuck him in one last time He obviously wasn’t fine, He’s a multiple gunshot suicide When the sirens roll, He’ll take his long, last ride To the undertaker’s vault, Well it’s nobody’s fault. He got mixed up in somethin’ I don’t know nothin’, But it ain’t nobody’s fault Anymore.
He’s a multiple gunshot suicide Time to take him for his long, last ride, You can write his name in the record books, But look away now friend, No long last looks. He’s a multiple gunshot suicide Time to bury his name with his shame He knew he was playin’ a dangerous game, So when the sirens roll, He’ll take his long last ride To the undertaker’s vault, Well it’s nobody’s fault. He got mixed up in somethin’. I don’t know nothin’ But it ain’t nobody’s fault Anymore.
It's very simple, really, National roulette. Pick a country, any country, Spin the dial, and wait. Aha, you see it's not the same Today as yesterday. A different flag and credo Rides a wind of change. The Shah is cooked, Somozo split Afghanistan's been blitzed. It's national roulette, And no one's got it sewed up yet So step right up and place your bets It's national roulette.
It's a new season, a break in the weather -- I look through a window And breathe in the blue.
One dead end behind me, A mind that can't find me, An old bag of bones on a bench.
Saints get the run-around With their ears close to the ground, And their noses to the grindstones, They're flunkies, Hustling for a buck in a company town, Where the demons flock like shadows When the sun goes down.
Outside the window There's a cool moon rising
Outside the window There's a lone cloud drifting. Stars come out, one by one.
Nice-- The word is so often slighted As if nothing could really be nice. But it is nice when the trees Planted in the middle of the road Rise up into the blue sky. It is very nice. As we go motoring down the road The deep blue of the sky Anticipates the approach of the sea, And this is also very nice.
It is nice when the child Plays with the colored ball in the sunshine, And it is nice when the mother Pushes the infant in the stroller-- The infant is very pretty, And this is also very nice. Oh yes, from here to infinity, Stretching out through all the extent of the clear, permitting sky-- Nice, nice, very nice, Like a child's game Of me discovering myself, Which is, in fact, nicest of all.
We are on a journey Crossing many lands dry lands with salty lake beds rocky lands with toothy crags windy lands with twisted shapes forested lands with dark groves gouged lands with crashing torrents impassable lands with gaping clefts
We have made a pact This journey will not end We will never turn back though paradise beckon a thousand times though the ghost of suicide whines though the elders threaten and malign We will press onward Regardless
We sleep in the open we feast on the sky If the stars could eat our brains our skulls would be hollow as the night but we have the power of fire in our hearts to give us light
The trees murmur in the dark the wind stirs their leaves and they say things to each other to the clouds the mountains the meadows the creeks and we listen intently as if we could understand but we do not
The moon stays on course unfurling its sail a little more every night Traveling farther across the sky waxing to its own sort of silvery day Lighting the path we must follow Charmed, all our lives
This is no simple game but the rules are unwritten, so you learn by losing, and win by learning.
It would be nice of course if someone knew the way but if they do they never say.
Come along then, to the place where eternity can catch us up and bear us along on its dark waves.
No Karma Karma, by Charles Carreon 11/19/14
Most often, your idea of who you're dealing with Is just a notion redolent with anxiety, So lighten up on the personalities, Especially your own. And do what needs doing.
There's no place different from this, So stop leaning into the hamster wheel, And work in the timeless presence Where beings appear In the splendor of unfettered creativity.
Breathing forth a stream of benefit From the heart that pervades all space, Radiate liberating awareness To every living being, And be washed pure in the rain of joy.
A small fire Can touch off a blaze That burns a million trees. It can smolder In the dried needles Inviting the latent flame in every thing To join with it In releasing the hidden power. Once fire catches Up with matter There's no stopping it. Chernobyl and Nagasaki and Watts Taught that. Fire one, Fire two, Fire three. Phosphorus Victim, Molotov Martyr, Subatomic Sacrificial Guernica Beast Terrified Howls "I DO!" Forced to wed, shotgun in the face, Flesh with flame, which, Once it catches, There's no stopping it.
No doubt I was born a fool. When young, I thought I'd die a wise man. Now I know a fool once born is never unmade. The way I was born is the way I've stayed. Strewing rose petals all the way, Greeting every grimy day With the toothy smile of idealism, As if someone else was going to pay And all I had to do was play. Is it any wonder I've been hated? Kindled others' rage to overflowing? Set tempers to raging and tongues to clucking; You would've thought they'd caught me fucking The Pope, or a horse, or somebody bad As if they never had conceived a naughty thought Or felt themselves get hot. There's something 'bout a traipsing step, a cavalier air, a flip of the wrist that puts their panties in a twist. I say I'm just a realist, Whereupon they drop their work And come straight for me, And it's not 'cause they adore me, They abhor me, And with imprecations vile Despoil my name. If I wasn't a fool I'd have gone insane, And they're all thinking "What goes on in that brain?" And I just say "I could tell you, but then you'd have to kill me."