In the age of the salad bar, There were no real men Or women, because canned garbanzos and Plastic cutlery Made identity irrelevant.
In the age of bottled fruit juice coolers And yogurt bars, There arose titanic palaces Crammed with ambrosia, Ornamented with water fountains, And fragrant with a rich Dairy-fruit scent
In the age of chocolate Covered marshmallow cookies, Great migrations were triggered That in turn spawned Cultural intermixtures The repercussions of which Are not yet fully understood.
In the sober era of canned pineapple, As we all know, Great solemnity prevails, As we await the return Of our children, decked with garlands, Wearing saturnalian smiles, From the place the heroes took them Long ago.
POETRY
Posted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:21 pm
by admin
Ordinary World, by Charles Carreon
We are the ordinary color people, the faded clothing, the old car people, We are the wood-stacked-by-the-fire people, The sun-shining-on-the-bare-rocks people. We are the just day by day people, No wealth, no future, no claims to fame. We are the don't-mind-being-forgotten people, The wind in the abandoned orchard people. Some people say we are a good-for-nothing people; That is OK with me, It is good to be for nothing. Yes, I like to walk a rocky coast, Listening to the sea-cave sounds. I like to lean my head out the window, Rolling down the hiway as the desert golds, And I like to think -- perhaps, someday The lights and shiny paint will fade, And reveal an ordinary world.
POETRY
Posted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:22 pm
by admin
Panorama, by Charles Carreon
There is gold for the rising sun, And red for the time when it sets. Green boughs adorn the curving hills, and blue resides in the depth of the sky. The purest light is the heart of the sun, and its absence the essence of night.
In the weight of the earth, nothingness -- In the nothingness of sky, endless abundance --
Mountains rise high into the air, Water swiftly descends from a height, Wind travels everywhere without hindrance, And the arrows of the sun are numberless and swift.
SONG
Posted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:25 pm
by admin
Paper Bag Blues, by Charles Carreon
(Sing to the tune "In the Summertime (when the sun gets hot)" but a little slower.)
Well in the afternoon, When the sun gets hot, And the shadows don't move in the parking lot, You bring a paper bag With a bottle o' wine-- We just sippin', bullshitin' an passin' time.
Well if ya just sit still You can chill yourself As cool as sweet wine On refrigerator shelf; You can rest your bones And relax your mind, You can have the kind o' pleasure Even kings don't find.
Well as the bottle gets low, Gotta sip it slow, And as your bones get loose We'll sing some paper bag blues-- We'll sing some paper bag blues-- You'll be swayin' and singin'-- Singin' paper bag blues.
Well you gone home, And you left me alone Nobody gonna call on the telephone The shadows creep, And they lay down flat Right on the cat And the kitchen mat. There ain't nobody comin'; I got noplace to go, And I finished up the last Of the Oreos. I got the paper bag blues-- I got the paper bag blues-- I'm gonna lay down in the kitchen, And sing the paper bag blues.
POETRY
Posted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:26 pm
by admin
Path of the Waning Day, by Charles Carreon
The Voice of the Heart Leads through a jungle. Sitting in a boat, Steering with an oar through turning currents. The waters twist through winding courses; I follow the path of the swirls. You cannot see the sky, Only green light sifting through the leaves, A glimpse of blue, The sun like a jewel flashing high in the vines. I am a young traveler; It takes youth to travel this path, It takes suppleness to follow the currents, Endurance to keep on without clear means. In the jungle of the heart there is still threat, There is danger for the traveler, and fear. The waters comfort. The waters console. I follow their twisting winding, Through the trees, old as crumbling castles, That murmur with the Voice of the Heart. I follow the stream, that never loses its way, I follow the paths of the waning day, And leave no tracks behind me. I follow, and the sound of the waters is with me.
POETRY
Posted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:28 pm
by admin
Pat Robertson for President, by Charles Carreon
i give thanx for the message of hate that tells me I'm not too late to get a hotdog and a straw boater hat and a ginger beer and barbecued rib 'cause i like the cut of his jib i'm gonna vote for that guy!
POETRY
Posted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:34 pm
by admin
Pig Party, by Charles Carreon
Well we're having a pig party 2-Nite, Empty the ashtrays And put the chairs upright
Then lets Get down At the Plushie-Tushie Palace Do a job Blow outta here 4 Dallas
On the nod Like to make it home for supper Doin drugs Feelin skewered thru the scupper
But when we Get down At the Plushie-Tushie Palace We can raise Some holy hell between us
Back at home And I'm feelin kinda nervous On the phone Twitchin' like a demon
I wish they'd come To the Plushie-Tushie Palace Then they would Not ever have to tell us
Wouldn't have to Ever ever tell us Treat us just Like ordinary fellas
POETRY
Posted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:39 pm
by admin
Pistolero, by Charles Carreon
Alacran Y Pistolero
[Regarding the writing of Pistolero ... Once upon a time when I lived in a yurt in the middle of a meadow with two children and a beautiful young wife, we had a neighbor who was a handsome, crusty fellow with an Eastern-European accent, and a cheerfully brusque manner of friendship. His name was Walter Von Finck, and he had run a commune of sorts, gathering fellow-travelers, and their labors, for the great mission of redeeming mankind. Or somesuch. He had made us a part of his grand collective exercise in the summer of 1978, esconcing us in the house called the Big House then, the Mouse House now that Buddhists run it. Tells you something, eh? But after one summer, during which Tara swelled up with Maria (not depicted above) and we moved into Medford to be near our midwife, we knew we couldn't do Walter's trip. As numerous other people felt the same way, Walter's commune, Rainbow Star, eventually ran out of communal steam. But we still liked living out there at Rainbow Star. We moved onto the property owned by Walter's divorced wife Chris, one of the former original Rainbow Starians, and built our yurt right across the meadow from Walter's little shanty-palace, where Dr. Shandor Weiss now lives under the watchful eye of Vajrasattva. When we convinced Chris to rent a place on her land to build a yurt, it was quite a coup. And a lifesafer, because we were so poor we couldn't actually afford rent on a single-family house in Ashland (shit -- now you couldn't rent that house for less than $1,500 a month -- but $275 was too much for us then). It was a distinct weird coup of ours, and for a long time we didn't really talk that much with Walter, though he was our neighbor. But one day he came up the road with a bag of coffee. That's when we all starting drinking the speedy bean. None too soon, I'm sure. Gave us some motivation. But Walter stayed pretty crusty, even when he was friendly. He was always criticizing the choice of our house location, telling us we were spiritually blind for not realizing "what was going to be built there." Well, nothing was ever built there after we tore our yurt down, but that's another story.
Back in the time I'm talking about, Walter and we had become good neighbors. After the quiet that ensued when we effectively seceded from his commune and nailed down a homestead outside of his autocratic influence, a warmth based on mutual respect arose.
So one night he came over and said that we should come over and watch The Magnificent Seven, with Yul Brenner, Ernest Borgnine, and lots of other big stars. It was showing on TV, and he was going to fire up the generator and we could watch it all together. Man, was that exciting.
Our kids never saw TV, and I mean never. They rarely saw electric light. We cooked and read by kerosene light or propane lamps, after the first year of living in neolithic obscurity. Our stove was so small it had been yanked out of a tiny travel trailer. I was snooping around a hermitage up in the hills built secretly on a monk's land earlier this year by an expatriate Australian, and sho' 'nuff there was our old stove. Still crankin' out the meals. At any rate, it was good times.
We weren't quite as backwoods as the folks in that Close To Eden movie, but it was as close as city kids were likely to get. So on that night, we went over to Walter's place and watched the hell out of this old Western classic, while the generator thundered away on Walter's mud porch. Heavy feng-shui coming over to Walters, with a four-stroke generator pounding away in the entry area.
Well the next day I had a fever in my brain. All that western gunfighting action had roiled my neurons, leaching out old stimulation programs that had been wired in my early developmental stages. A man, I realized, was at his most manly as a gunfighter. The decisive image of the showdown in the plaza. A bullfight where each participant is both bull and bullfighter. The duel, made mechanically swift. Two face off. Only one survives. No equivocation, no ambiguity, no uncertainty. One winner. One dead guy. Ain't no question who the ladies are gonna go for.]
Pistolero, go away. I've been kept awake all night by you and your friends Clinking glasses, smoking, gambling All night in my kitchen.
Pistolero, I remember you At high noon In the main street, Standing with a wide stance on tapered legs in pointed boots, Your gun-hand loose and poised over a low-slung holster Hanging heavy with iron.
You and your revolver -- You squeeze the trigger and the hammer slams down On a forty-four center-fire cartridge: The crash of exploding gunpowder. Smoke drifts from the muzzle of your pistol and Your enemy's laid out cold.
You repeat this action again and again in a false-front Western town. You practice on old whisky bottles perched on a fence, and The flying shards delight us, Seeming to explode of themselves, Balanced on that slender rail.
A wild magic you wield in a gunfight you turn, wheel, Blast them from an awkward angle, Run, dive, roll, take aim and shoot again. You make a mess of little towns, whether you're a good or bad guy You're always shooting up saloons and hotels, Smashing out windows, breaking down doors, Crashing through railings, allowing furniture to be splintered Apart on your head --
Pistolero, gunslinger, we've fallen in love with your kind of justice. We shed no tears for bad guys Who disturb the peace of innocent townspeople Who destroyed the buffalo? Who annihilated the Navajo? Who are all cut from the same Whole cloth of pure white goodness Which is never stained by the blood of ruffians, Or torn by the anguish of whores, Or disturbed by the stuporous stares of alcoholic Indians, leaning against railings that do not break, Falling heavily through glass that shatters without drama, Collapsing at noon in the boring dust of a real street in a town Where Wyatt Earp checked out of his hotel an inconceivably long time ago.
POETRY
Posted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:57 pm
by admin
Plan "B", by Charles Carreon
Nothing's quite so sure as this, the moment when something's gone amiss . . . It's creativity then must intermit, at the pleading of necessity, to show us how to make the best of it.
SONG
Posted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:01 pm
by admin
Planet Earth, 2008, by Charles Carreon
Well I never thought I would make it this far To see the fall of the wall And the rise of the Reich
No I never thought I would have to live In a brainwashed country With an enemies list.
Planet Earth, 2008 I know exactly who to blame You can call them by their real names They're not ashamed They think they're the masters And we're the slaves
Our soldiers break down A man's front door Put a gun to his head And his face to the floor
We always shoot first And never ask questions We believe what we're told And buy what we're sold
Planet Earth, 2008 Our crimes have blotted out our name In the name of God We've gone insane Spilled innocent blood In Jesus' name
Our leaders are liars Some say they like it that way Cheatin', double-dealin' And gettin' away But money's made of somethin' Like the hours of our days That we grind away Tryin' to make it pay
Planet Earth, 2008 Hell on earth In a thousand ways Could we just stop killing For one damn day?
Our kids are half-crazy Black and white Singin' rap and cheap metal Every night Their hope for the future's Not very bright They know they've been sold out They have no rights
Planet Earth, 2008 How long will people have to wait For the sun to shine On a decent day Where the workers smile And the children play?
Planet Earth, 2008 When the billions rise It'll have to change And until that day There'll be hell to pay
Planet Earth, 2008 I Declare a global holiday No more bosses after today Just break the chain And walk away.