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.
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.
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.
One summer I was too poor to buy new shoes. When my old ones got really worn out, like falling apart to where you look psychotic if you wear them in town, I took to going barefoot when I went to town. That was funny. I used to go barefoot all the time When I was younger, but now, with all these kids, I felt like a poor hillbilly. Finally, when I got a little cash, I broke down and got a pair of blue jogging shoes at Sprouse-Reitz for five dollars. They were even too big but they were cheap. So I wore them without socks and looked psychotic. What I discovered after I'd owned them for a while was that they weren't made of rubber, as I'd assumed; they were made of plastic. I knew because they clicked when I walked on linoleum, and nobody's Nike's or Adidas ever did that. Eventually I discovered that they were plastic in every detail, from the thread to the fabric, to the insole to the tongue to the wrap-around leather-looking stuff that's supposed to be suede but is as plastic as everything else. And none of it breathed. Plastic doesn't breathe. It doesn't inhale or exhale And it's not holding its breath. Eventually my feet got sick of those shoes. They were too big, they made me look psychotic, and they didn't breathe. I threw them away and breathed a sigh of relief. Those shoes had started to give me the creeps.
Why Ramones play like they do: To destroy the enemies of human freedom.
Why it sounds so good: Full-spectrum sonic sun pulses pure crystalline idiot bliss, kicks nirvana into overdrive.
Why it's played so fast: To harmonize with the buzz of human anxiety in this smoke-filled age. To give you the speed to escape.
Why it sounds so harsh: To subdue conflicting emotions and eradicate fear.
What you can do with it: Cut LA in half with one clean stroke, Raze Century City with a backhand swipe, Vaporize the Hollywood sign with a glance, and blow away all eight lanes of the 10 freeway with a single puff of breath.
Practical wisdom, 'swhat I say. Practical wisdom everyday. Practical wisdom like a pocket flask or a Zippo lighter Ready when you call and you don't have to fight it
Practical wisdom like a little boy's hand in his daddy's grip Hold on tight Never slip
Practical wisdom like a momma's arms Hold so strong To keep away harm
Practical wisdom like a maiden's smile all sweetness and innocence for a little while all truth and consequence after many a mile
Practical wisdom like a ploughman's palm rough and callused from always keepin' on Work till sunset Rise at dawn
Practical wisdom like a policeman's gun Always in the holster Never pulled for fun
It's night in the West Wing The lights are still burning In an oval office A man walks alone He's weighed down with worries Oh you'd like to think Troop movements and spending The war neverending Whether old Scooter Libby Is going to sing.
But you would be wrong, then He picks up the phone And asks the woman who answers, "Has Colin gone home?"
"Well why would you ask that?" He says, "Just a joke" "My whole foreign policy Went up in smoke"
"Last week in Jordan It was such a thrill This sleeping with Laura's A bitter pill."
President Evil, can't understand If killing's good for the economy Why isn't it right?
Why do they plague him With tiresome demands The haters who hate him Just don't understand.
He has a vision He has a plan He's going to start surging Like a real man.
He has his puppets He pulls all the strings Chalabi, Alawi, Maliki And friends
We've got all the oil now We'll just rig the vote now Wheel the last of the cash Right out the back door
President Evil, wonders sometimes How it's all gone so well, Yet he's not done yet,
Let them rejoice now He'll bring the House down When he picks up His veto pen.
Pelosi should learn how To just shut her trap How can you trust An Italian like that?
But Karl says she's got her Tit in a ringer She can't cut off spending That's vote suicide
Yes President Evil knows he's got it right Depend on the stupids And call darkness light
He can't be worried By haters who vote The people who loved him Preferred to stay home
Besides, they're still paying Like donkeys they're braying That honor's not cheap So to Iraq they must go.
President Evil, if you only knew He's as sweet as the sun on a long afternoon His kisses like honey His ass smells like money That's why people who lick it Can fill a big room.
President Evil, will not be dethroned For evil endures Like a dinosaur's bones You may not realize it May think you despise it But it's waiting for you Wherever you roam.
President Evil may be the right man For evil tasks We just can't understand
So hush now my baby I'll sing sweet lullabies While President Evil Destroys those we despise Buries their faces And stifles their cries.
Professor Dee What do you see? In this temple Of mystery A shaggy bear A scary guy A drunken poet A slashing knife You don't play games You've got three wives Playing dominoes And sipping tea Your cart broke down One rainy night And now you're Stuck here with A mystery you've Been meaning to Solve for some time So let's get down And make some notes Got to be careful Someone tried to kill you But your wife, the #3 Had wrapped your Head in orange peels That the other wives Then concealed Under your hat So when someone Went and hit you on The head You weren't dead You had some wine You thought some more You interviewed the Poet who was drunker Than before About the Body of The Abbot, was he Poisoned, tell me more?
Maps grow out of darkness, Negotiating that (we hope) ever-expanding perimeter of understanding out of nothingness,
Using fingers, eyes, ears, To probe, search out, define, delimit The actuality of what is there and Freeze its meaning in a picture.
The early maps of Terra Had so much incognita, Like a real woman, Essentially unknown.
The old maps look organic, A continent, like a mass of cauliflower, Or an undersea sponge, The rivers like veins, pumping the sea.
Suffering from relative blindness, Or blindness to relativity, The old cartographers were handicapped And forced to imagine the contours of the shorelines.
Hence, Africa, in the shape of a papaya -- Old maps fail to depict the contours properly, The confident assertion of the land, The invasive penetration of the sea.
So much for those who tried to map the known -- Their talents refined with the ages, But at last the sattelite eclipsed them all, Giving any stupid eyeball the whole story in a wink.
Were we wholly blind, Truly sightless, what would we imagine the world to be? Precisely the riddle Of psychic cartography.
[Well, Merry Christmas, Boys and Girls. I hope you've all been good, because Santa is on his way, and the Air Force is reporting. This is Lt. Col. Merriweather from NORAD reporting that we have just sighted an airborne sleigh crossing the dew line. It appears to be drawn by reindeer, and piloted by a jolly looking fellow in a red and white suit ...
... STATIC! ...
No, what is that?
It's not Santa, it's, it's ... Oh, my God ... it's going to tear the Internet a new asshole!
BOMB!]
Well he used to be a pterodactyl up in the sky, Tearin' people's heads off, and eatin' their eyes, But now he's done a change-up, Got a new disguise -- All Points Bulletin: Look out for this guy!
He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks, Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks, Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick, Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.
Particularly dangerous to boys and girls Who play with computers in the virtual world He claims to be the hero of the human race, A relief from their cubicles and bookin' their face.
He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks, Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks, Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick, Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.
His prehistoric origin's a mystery -- Did he escape from the lavatory? Was he made by the Pentagon and NSA A living drone that shoots mind rays, Makin' zombies of his followers -- Internet slaves!
He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks, Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks, Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick, Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.
When cornered he will strike back with a vicious blow, There is no depth to which he will not go. Do not attempt to apprehend -- Type "King Kong," then hit Send.
He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks, Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks, Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick, Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.
He can revert to his original form at will. X-Men got nothin' he can't kill. Only a simian of similar size Can pluck the Pterodactyl out of the skies.
He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks, Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks, Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick, Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.
Rain Heard Outside the Open Window of the Motel Room, by Charles Carreon
Sweet passion, Now the rain comes down, The plashing rivulets enchant the ear, the night air pauses and tastes itself, branches dripping, water gathering in hollows, marked with glints of moonlight -- In every niche of water -- A Moon.