Poetry & Songs, by Charles Carreon

For the sake of ornament and illumination.

SONG

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:34 pm

Psycho Santa, by Charles Carreon



Image



(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!

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.
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Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:36 pm

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.
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Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:38 pm

Reese's Cups, by Charles Carreon (14 years old)

Image

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!

1969
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Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 10:00 pm

Requiem, by Charles Carreon

Image

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.
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Postby admin » Mon Sep 30, 2013 11:05 pm

Retreat Days, by Charles Carreon

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.
 
October 16, 1997
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Postby admin » Mon Sep 30, 2013 11:07 pm

Reunion, by Charles Carreon

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.)
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Postby admin » Mon Sep 30, 2013 11:09 pm

Reverie, by Charles Carreon

bed of azure blue
coverlet of drifting cloud
flesh and bone at rest
eyes close, embrace
snow-covered hills

cool air blows clear in silence
pure wind skirts the drifted mountain
bristled branches of evergreen cast
crisp shadows
blue on naked snow
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Postby admin » Mon Sep 30, 2013 11:10 pm

Run Run Ambu Run, by Charles Carreon

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
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Postby admin » Mon Sep 30, 2013 11:12 pm

Safe From Realization, by Charles Carreon

This Buddha wisdom we so admire
Is likened to a funeral pyre
Consuming all,
It does not leave behind
A library.
The erudite
have nothing to fear from Nirvana;
it is farther away
each day.
This literary club
we so enjoy
is just a ploy
to avoid taking a walk
in the park.
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Postby admin » Mon Sep 30, 2013 11:13 pm

Sandwich, by Charles Carreon

Experiences are like bacon, lettuce and
tomato sandwiches;
 
Concepts are like toothpicks
holding them together.
 
What is the toast?
Heaven and earth, the rising
of the sun and moon.
 
What is the lettuce?
Nostalgia for the First Garden.
 
What is the tomato?
Birth.
 
What is the bacon?
The addictive taste of desire.
 
What is the mayo?
Me and you. 
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