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PostPosted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 5:37 pm
by admin
2 AM Swim At The Sunset Cliffs, by Charles Carreon


Pizza slinging done for the night --
After-hours Budweiser consumed.
Close the back door.
Silent dark streets, ocean roar
off to the right -- Japan, China, Hawaii, over there.
Beach condos, occupants asleep.
Dark waves rolling in.
Walking down the sidewalk damp with mist,
My shadow goes first before me, then behind,
slave to the nearest streetlamp.
Cut down from the well-lit cul-de-sac,
Squeeze between a wall and some barbed wire,
Follow a sandy track to the base of the cliffs.
Dark, calm sea, a slopping wet hugeness
Clawing softly at the shore.
I strip and roll my clothing up,
Wade into water black as pitch.
The sandy shelf tips sharply down
I feel like a pencil about to roll
off the edge; three or four steps
And the wetness closes over me,
limbs floating in a threatening womb,
Fathomless, pulling, down, down, deeper --
Appalling to the inner ear;
I try to float, abandoning effort, weight,
and thought, but I can't
Do it. Clearly I see a gleaming knot
of twisted iron. That's me/it's death.
Back in the land of the living --
My wallet, My pants, My glasses. I'm wet skin.
Walking with shoes on back to the travelall.
Down the freeway under serials of arc-lamps.


PostPosted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 5:39 pm
by admin
A Good Roar, by Charles Carreon

Charles Carreon's re-write of a Dudjom Rinpoche poem
(see original below)

A good roar
Empties acres of wilderness.
On snowy peaks
Among waterfalls,
My mane hangs loose.

With my sharp eyes and iron talons,
Who would hide in a pile of bricks?
These wings climb thermals
Spiralling staircases
That go everywhere --
No one can follow me into the sky.

Flashing fiery stripes
In green-leafed chaos
Draped with venomous reptiles,
I’m safe from everything, and
Smell that – what a nice smell!

My wings are crazy fast
They wind up and
I’m bang-on for those fat blossoms
Let’s dive into that pollen
Drink up all that sweetness
And hummm together

With naked feet and clear sight,
I’m happy in here.
We can do this.
Nice day, huh?


Dudjom Rinpoche's Version

A song I sang as I was about to depart from Kongpo to wander aimlessly in central Tibet and other regions:

I, a roaring lion, do not need a palace:
My lion palace is the snow mountains’ exalted heights.
I shake my excellent turquoise mane as I please
As I roam at will in delightful snow mountain ravines.

I, an eagle, do not need a fortress:
My white eagle fortress is the loftiest cliff.
I spread wide my excellent wings as I please
As I soar through the space of the vast blue heavens.

I, a tiger, do not need a castle:
My tiger castle is the densest jungle.
I show off my stripes as I please
As I set out to prowl in the best sandalwood forests.

I, a golden bee, do not need farmland:
My bee farmland is the fines lotus groves.
I sing beautiful melodious songs as I please
As I hover to take the sweetest tasting nectar.

I, a yogi, do not need a home:
My yogi home is good any place I roam.
I naturally achieve my two noble goals
As I set out to wander aimlessly as I please.

I Dudjom, spoke this nonsense.


John Potts' Version

*A song I sang as I was about to depart from Kongpo, to wander aimless in central Tibet and other regions**

I'm a roaring lion, I don't need a palace:
My lion palace is the snow mountains’ lofty heights.
Shaking my excellent turquoise mane just as I please
Freely roaming in delightful snow mountain ravines.

I'm an eagle, I do not need a fortress:
My white eagle fortress is the highest cliff.
Spreading my excellent wings as wide as I please
Soaring through the space in vast heavens of blue.

I'm a tiger, I don't need a castle:
My tiger castle is the densest jungle.
Flaunting my stripes, just as I please
Setting out to prowl the finest sandalwood forests.

I'm a golden bee, I don't need farmland:
My bee farmlands are the finest lotus groves.
Singing beautiful melodious songs, just as I please
Hovering to drink the sweetest tasting nectar.

I'm a yogi, I don't need a home:
My yogi's home is good, anywhere I roam.
Naturally achieving my two noble goals
Setting out to wander aimlessly, just as I please.

I myself, Dudjom, spoke this nonsense.


PostPosted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 5:42 pm
by admin
A Measure of Value, by Charles Carreon (14 yrs. old)


If of value at all
It has its roots in desire
And cravings,
Lusts and wants beyond understanding.
It must be needed as life by life,
And no less



PostPosted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 5:45 pm
by admin
A Mexican Fourth of July, by Charles Carreon


There once was a man named Columbus
Italian I think that he was
He got lost on the way to the Indies
And laid claim to this country instead

The people who lived here were Mayas
Olmecas, Toltecas and such
We worshipped among the volcanoes
And lived in traditional huts

We lived mainly on beans and tortillas
With tomatoes and chilies for spice
We built pyramids bigger than Walmarts
But the greeters were not very nice.

When Cortez arrived sometime later
He kidnapped the Mexican King
We had heavy clubs and obsidian knives
But against bullets they don't do a thing.

The Padres and Popes screwed us freely
And the Spanish gave way to the French
Benito Juarez strung up Maximillian
Ruling Mexico's never a cinch.

Of course, we once owned California
Arizona, New Mexico, too
We mined gold, silver and turquoise
But not like Americans do.

Then you dammed up the water, you bastards,
The Colorado no longer flows free
To the Golfo de California
You took it for nothing from me.

You make fun of our clothes and our English
Even though Espanol you can't speak
You deride us for tanning so darkly
While you hide from the sun like a freak.

Go on laugh, you pinche Cabrones
Laugh until you piss your pants
We are the ones with cojones
Move aside, so that we can get past.

We won't spit in your milkshake, hermano
In fact let me supersize that
More fries? Absolutely senora,
When compared with a pig, you're not fat.

You watch porn like you're all maricones
Jerking off while your wives waste away
When you forget how to screw altogether
I will call that a wonderful day.

When cute Mexicanas are flirting
Red blooded chamacos must play
It's true we don't do much computing
You don't make Mexicanos that way.

You're going to build walls on the border
With Mexican Labor I hear
The Israelis tried that in their desert
Soon we'll have suicide beaners here.

You are laughing, I see mi amigo,
Your sonrisa is smiling so bright
So have one of these chili poppers
On a Mexican fourth of July.


PostPosted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 5:48 pm
by admin
After Troy, by Charles Carreon


To destroy another's homeland is not brave.
The gods appoint the hours
Of man's destruction, and enemies
But loot the ruins of that which heaven overturns.

To be long away from home in battle is not sweet.
The spirit craves only the warmth of the home fires,
The familiar shape of one's own island
Carved against the sky.

An old goat sticks to the highlands
Where men don't trust their feet.
A clever fellow watches and waits.
Time does his work for him.

Now numberless leagues of sea
Separate my men from those they love.
The waves give not a single inch,
And silence is heard from above.

Adventures have carved sinews on my back,
Streaked my beard with grey.
The work of outwitting gods and men,
Is with me every day.

Scylla and Charybdis will I dare
Their gnashing teeth will meet my glare,
And Circe with her magics try
And little better fare.

As Heracles for golden apples
Journeyed to the sun,
So to join Penelope,
The longest race I'll run.


PostPosted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 5:50 pm
by admin
Ahi Sandwich, by Charles Carreon


There was a man
who had a band
And a pocketful of sand
He took my hand
And in my eyes
He looked to find
Another kind of mind there

It was an Ahi Sandwich moment
A real tantalizing torment
to realize we'd never make it to the moon
Might even work until we jerk
Upon the end of the hangman's rope
Ah you could hope
Like the fellow at the Owl Creek Bridge
Never to wake
From the last dream


PostPosted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 5:51 pm
by admin
All Along the Spine of the Siskiyous, by Charles Carreon

It's a soft-focus night, moonless and mute.
Truck-light on the freeway
filters through gentle rain drifting
from the mountains,
cloaking the valley.

In the upper reaches of the valley,
a southward-running ridge,
a finger of forest reaching
into the drylands of California.
Winds stream by,
Stirring the tall trees,
Bearing a harvest of clouds.
To the north -- coolness and moisture.
In the south -- valleys filled with dry grass.
There is tension between the two.
They lie next to each other,
all along the spine of the Siskiyous,
everything touching, licking each other
with tongues of clouds.
In the morning,
The fruit of their love
is fresh-fallen snow.


PostPosted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 5:53 pm
by admin
All Rise, by Charles Carreon

A tiny man of flesh and bone
Wandering over the frozen dirt
That glitters with countless crystals
Of frozen water,
Will gaze about him and
Beneath him
And discover
A lack of tethers,
A great silence ready to respond
With echoes only to his any word.
Tree bark, lichen-patched stone,
Blades of dried grasses
Rimed with frost--
One need only forget
To be utterly lost.

Residing on a spinning ball
We cannot depart from
But only fall into,
We forget the cliff,
The abyss of no experience
Into which we will tumble
When death pulls his abrupt
And exceedingly impractical joke.

Nevertheless, all rise,
The sovereign lord appears,
Speaking eloquently with
Ten million warming rays
To bathe, caress and possess
All the numberless creatures
Born of boundlessness.

1/30/94, Colestine


PostPosted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 5:55 pm
by admin
Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves, by Charles Carreon

(To the Tune of "Rhymin' and Stealin'" by The Beastie Boys)

Well, drivin' Buddhists crazy's what she's all about,
Talkin' so straight that they have to shout,
No sweet muffin with a daisy in her belly,
She's never once been called Cin-der-elly.
Liberating mystics of their counterfeit money,
They're chokin' on their bliss, lookin' pretty funny;
She got sixteen Siddhas on a dead man's chest
They're smilin' like their hopin' that she'll do the rest.

Plum crazy girl -- goes straight thru the ceilin',
She'll keep talkin' till they cap her --
She's rockin' and reelin'.
Rippin' at the reins -- breakin' down the gate
She's got your wagon, it's a jail break,
She's got the warden with a sock in his mouth
And she's headed for the badlands way down south,
Breakin' out bandidos from their stinking jails
They got no badges and they're off the rails.
They're loyal to her
They're loyal to fun,
And they got her back
When she has to run.

It's Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves,
Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves

There ain't no words to end this story.
She's bound for freedom, fame and glory,
With hell on her trail,
With God payin' bounty
They'll hang her in the middle
Of Bumfuck County,

Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves,
Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves

Well they say she took out for Apache country,
That there was smoke in the sky and very dusty,
Thunderheads risin' and tumbleweeds rollin'
The priest locks the church and the bells start tollin'.
And every now and then the children chant
The magic words that their parents said they can't,
Hopin' and prayin'
Singin' and playin',
Feelin' so naughty
That they just gotta say it,

Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves,
Ambu Baba and the Forty Thieves


PostPosted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 5:58 pm
by admin
An Atlas of Her Body, by Charles Carreon

[Nature has an unerring weapon for controlling her children -- sex. The mysterious attraction of one body for another can never truly be fathomed, rather it is the sea upon which all human beings are borne. As a young man, troubled very much by the emotion of attraction for beautiful beings and things, I became quite worn out with the insistence of my own impulses. Perhaps in an effort to dry out my relationship with attraction, I created this Borgesian poetic essay extolling lust as a scholarly pursuit. Somewhat tongue in cheek, yet lovingly crafted, it is a work that I enjoy to this day.]


An Atlas of her body
would be a thousand volumes long;
Though sages might ponder it for
centuries, taking notes and reasoning,
They would never agree on their

If an atlas of her body were
composed, those who perused it
Would become filled with wanderlust.
Their eyes would become glazed
And they would be useless for all
If they were prevented from setting
Out upon their journey, they would
Simply fade away, undone by a dream.

If, by some miracle, an atlas of her body
Were found amid the ruins of some
Ancient city, secreted away in a casket
Studded with jade, wrought of gold,
Wonder would spread over the earth
Like a cloud of golden dust;
There would be found hope
In the hearts of skeptics.

If, by examining the intense and
unyielding light at the atom's heart,
It might prove possible to discover
an atlas of her body,
Many would strive to focus their
sight so finely,
Thinking blindness small price to pay
to find one's hand, at last,
Upon the Book, though yet unfree
to read the page

Of all that set upon the quest, none
Perhaps they gain calamity for all
their pains;
Perhaps each one is overwhelmed
by the vastness of the task,
And turn aside to set their eyes
upon some smaller prize.

For a certainty many are lost,
Steering under strange stars for so
many nights,
Disdaining charts where all such hopes
are false,
Attending to the weary waves, losing
track of days and nights,
Wandering endlessly, while we,
Left behind, are still waiting,
Waiting for news, waiting for our
Heroes to return,
Waiting and hoping for that dreadful
treasure, the Atlas of Her Body.