Page 18 of 28


PostPosted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:22 pm
by admin
Pocket Essay Re: Ramones, by Charles Carreon

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.


PostPosted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:23 pm
by admin
Practical Wisdom, by Charles Carreon

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


PostPosted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:26 pm
by admin
President Evil, by Charles Carreon


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.


PostPosted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:28 pm
by admin
Professor Dee, by Charles Carreon

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?


PostPosted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:30 pm
by admin
Psychic Cartography, by Charles Carreon


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.


PostPosted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:34 pm
by admin
Psycho Santa, by Charles Carreon


(Dedicated to Matthew Inman of the Oatmeal)

[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!


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.


PostPosted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:36 pm
by admin
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.


PostPosted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:38 pm
by admin
Reese's Cups, by Charles Carreon (14 years old)


oh I think and reese's cups we are
mellow chocolate people with peanut butter
centers so creamy smooth
We are eight
in a car we feel
just like a mobile snackbar
two for a dime and
reese's cups we are
and headed for where?
out to the darkness in a candy car
with a failing transmission
could it be for lack of orange juice?
out of the car now
walking for a long time
only six reese's cups now
two we left back in the car
loving and melting together
On to the castle
With big power lines beside us
babbling their high tension talk
the very finest music
we listen then stagger on
feeling melted by the moon
just stumbling along and wondering
just what are those little things
all over the ground?
your flashlight
and oh god! they're really there
and look like octopi
we walk on and go through a very strange dry lake
looking like the moon
and our feet frozen
we stagger to the truck and
ho there is the candle and let's
build a fire
we do and it is a very nice fire
with red and white honeycombs and blue fringe
ah a patriotic fire!
we sit about and warm ourselves and watch
the fire acting strangely
then I stand and say to reese's cup Liz
we're gonna have'ta go and
she says yeah the sun's got an hour to go yet
before it's gotta get up
so Fred shows us the road and the power lines
and Liz and I go floating down the road so happy
together and our chocolate alive
our peanut butter vibrant!



PostPosted: Fri Sep 27, 2013 10:00 pm
by admin
Requiem, by Charles Carreon


Summer woods, floating with dust
Shafts of bright sun
split deep shade between tall trees:
cedars, pines

Forest floor mulched thick
with needles and dry leaves
crackles brittly underfoot:
a bronze and copper carpet

This butterfly, black-specked, cinnamon winged,
Hangs from a long-stemmed grass flower,
purple-petalLed, dipping low with the weight
Of this pretty, nectar-loving bug with wings
Spread flat as those in a collecting case.
Together they dip heavily as a breeze
lifts and settles them on a draught.

This green, delicate, segmented leg belongs
to the spider, clinging to the swaying stem,
Clutching the pretty creature at the neck
with strong mandibles.

The butterfly's eyes: dull, empty.
Its body, dry and hollow, like paper.

Released, the bright corpse flutters
to the ground,
Softly irridescent in the leaves.


PostPosted: Mon Sep 30, 2013 11:05 pm
by admin
Retreat Days, by Charles Carreon

Autumn comes,
colors, greys,
Scraps, slivers and
Rich expanses of blue sky
Filled with transparent,
beautiful light,
The sun,
floating, liquid
as a reflection in a pond
And all of us
aimless as leaves
scattered by the breeze ...
In love with the time,
the space,
Stretching in every direction
And everything that moves,
Wind, leaves, evergreen boughs,
the sun, the shadows,
Moving in the same direction,
a river flowing steadily
to the mouth of the falls where
each separate thing
the plunge,
dissolving into the roar
as the sun's pure light
breaks open --
A ball of miracles --
Gleaming fragments
fill every eye
with no end of intricacy,
what's hidden inside,
Leaving us
pierced through with wonder,
by something lovely,
October 16, 1997