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.
POETRY
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:11 pm
by admin
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.
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.
SONG
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:22 pm
by admin
Bankers From Hell, by Charles Carreon
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
POETRY
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:23 pm
by admin
Bay Area Nonsense Poem #1, by Charles Carreon
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.
POETRY
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:24 pm
by admin
Bedtime Prayer, by Charles Carreon
Now I lay me Down To Sleep, I pray the Lord My soul To Keep. If dawn should catch me Once again, I pray I'll meet it With a friend. If sorrow makes it's bed with me I pray to meet it fearlessly; If solid earth should fall away I pray to find a grasp somewhere; And if this moment fades to stay, Leaving my name to dust among the voices of the living, I pray that I will yet Partake in the sacrament of giving.
(Summer, 1986)
POETRY
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:25 pm
by admin
Better Safe Than Sorry, by Charles Carreon
Well it was just the other day Went out on the runway It was time to catch the plane and I sure am glad to say That the witch doctor was right there Spilling blood all along the wing, I could practically see the wind gods Lifting us to the sky, Cause I'm a superstitious guy and you want to know why Because I don't know where I came from or where to go when I die, And if I can't find someone to take my money Then it's all gonna be so goddamn funny So kill the beasts Make the gods happy If they don't cheer up My life will be crappy And we have to eat dinner anyway So why not do it right after we pray And kill TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE!
SONG
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:29 pm
by admin
Beware Software, by Charles Carreon
In Victorian times Lived a man named Babbage This song has nothing to do with cabbage
It's all about software That binds up your mind That digital monster That swallowed mankind
Beware, software It'll eat you up Bit by bit, Byte by byte Day and night, Beware, software For it has no soul And no goal, And soon, Neither will you
Babbage imagined programmed machines That performed as directed To a hundredth degree
Gates said "Make copies, But I own each one!" From Pac Man to Pokemon, A barrel of fun
Beware, software It'll eat you up Bit by bit, Byte by byte Day and night, Beware, software It's not getting tired Or feeling wired Which is more than we Can say for you
Now Frogger seems harmless Email's a must You might get a virus Or hit by a bus
Some Nigerian scammer Could make you his fool Or you could bet a prescription For a much bigger tool
Beware, software It'll eat you up Bit by bit, Byte by byte Day and night, Beware, software As you point and click Don't forget To save your work And exit normally
POETRY
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:31 pm
by admin
Big House, by Charles Carreon
All my friends are disappearing; I don't know where they go. The clouds thin out to nothing The waves dissolve on shore.
My suit is made of water Propped up with hollow stones, The sun floats somewhere in my head Wind thrums inside my bones.
Electromagnet frequencies Tie head to hand and toe, And circulation systems Are always on the go.
Hearing sounds, decoding symbols, Ordering the stew, Sensing's first, then making sense, Then sensing what is true.