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.
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.
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!
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.
Autumn comes, colors, greys, winds. 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 unmoving.
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 takes 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, showing what's hidden inside, Leaving us pierced through with wonder, Transfixed by something lovely, clear, complete.
The fierce baying of the wolf In the hours between midnight and dawn, You in the old pea-coat of slavery, Emblazoned with the hash-marks on the sleeve, The names of your comrades inscribed In small letters on the inside lapel. The loving embrace of the son who is gone, The broken hammer returned to the forge and remade, Between the heart and mind, nails.
(Note: At around 3:33 a.m. on October 6, 2008, I woke from a vivid dream. I was at my mother's house, and she gave me the old pea-coat I'd worn in military school. On the arm some numbers were marked crudely, and on the inside lapel, the names of my old friends were written in small handwriting. I was delighted to have the coat, and put it on. My son Joshua was in the bathroom, taking a shower. My mother told me to eat half the food that was on my plate – a burrito and a cheese enchilada, and to leave the rest for Josh, but I said no, that I would go out to eat and he could have all of it. I put the enchiladas that she had cut for me back on the plate. I saw that Josh had already eaten a bite of the burrito, and was glad it was still warm. Joshua was in the bedroom, a little boy with his long hair cut in bangs, and told me excitedly about some poetry he had written with his friend Sam. I said it was really good. We hugged, passionately, with the sincere, aware delight of knowing that we were really hugging, that he was right there in my arms. Then he began to recite some very powerful poetry, very beautifully, with a confident delivery. As he reached the last line, his lips were smiling in triumph, like he knew he had impressed me. When I awoke, the last line echoed in my head, “Between the heart and mind, nails.” I couldn't forget it, but only heard the rhythm of the preceding lines, so I played the rhythm in my head, and the words fell into place instantly. I wrote them down in the dark, thinking I'd need to adjust them to get them to scan properly. But when I read them, the rhythm was perfect. Some tears ran down my face, and waves of feeling rippled through my whole body. I was happy. Joshua passed away in a car accident sometime between three and four a.m., February 17, 2006. In my mind, this poem that is very much in his style, is his gift to me. I share it with you as he no doubt intended.)
Well everybody's heard That Ambu's bad, 'Cause she dumped a cup of coffee In DoubleFish's lap, and she told Namdrol He's full of crap,
Run run, Ambu Run, Run, run, And we'll have some fun Ridin' motorscooters in the summer sun
Well they give her lots a shit Cause she's full of sass, and acts like she's the best piece of ass, But she tears up the malt shop Like hell on wheels, And nobody gets back all the things she steals.
Run, run, Ambu run, Run, run Ambu run, We'll be ridin' motorscooters in the evenin' sun.
Well the Buddhists thought they owned the whole damn field, But she borrowed a monster truck to make things real, And when they saw how things were lookin' They just started bookin, Straight for the parkin' lot.
Run, run Ambu run, Run, run, Ambu run, 'Cause you're headed for the beach and some wild fun!
Well she poked old Kusum Lingpa right in the eye, Fixed up Segal with a beerful of lye, Smoked out Cathy Burroughs with her lace and leather, Frowned her brows And made Arch Stanton act better, So they backed up a little, Then they revved up a lot, Which is when she peeled out with her Hemi hot.
Run, run Ambu run, Run, run, Ambu run, And let's go ridin' motorscooters in the morning sun.
Run, run Ambu run, Run, run Ambu Run, Waaaoooooooooooo