Poetry & Songs, by Charles Carreon

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.


Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:25 pm

The Lemming National Anthem, by Charles Carreon

All hail the One-Party System,
So well-organized that no one can doubt it’s
The best, most logical system that’s ever been
Devised by the smartest brightest guys.

All hail the One-Party Leader,
The man with the robotic sighs,
With handlers, and helpers and programmed
Responses that don’t need to be scrutinized.

All hail the One-Party Loser,
The man who ran as one a-terrorized;
His voters felt like dopes, when he scuttled all their votes
And fell in with the One-Party Line.

All hail the Great Corporate Leaders,
Who have made the world their own swimming pool
Filled with toxic sewage and cool designer luggage --
You know that Paris Hilton is no fool.

All hail the Great Wall Street Bankers,
Making plans to get and spend it all,
Sending freight trains stuffed with loot to their friends
In big black boots, who will send them back an even bigger haul.

All hail the Great Iraqi Warriors
Who staunchly defend their foreign sands,
Who give us names for terrorists, and target practice for our kids,
And help our friends the Saudis keep clean hands.

All hail the Great Attorney General,
The baddest goddamn Mexican of all;
He don’t need no stinking badge, cause torture’s not that bad,
And he’ll explain it in that room right down the hall.

All hail the Free Press that’s freely
Publishing nothing at all, but the latest profile shot
That proves that Condoleezza’s hot
Which just proves nothing at all.

All hail the Fake Politicians
Who are wondering who to sell out today.
If you haven’t got a lobbyist then you’re not on their Santa’s list,
And won’t you kindly just go away?

All hail the Great Entertainers,
Who thank heavens have nothing to say,
Made of silicone and methadone, their voices big as megaphones
Keep all unpleasant news so far away.

All hail the Brave Media Lawyers
Who sue children and ancients one and all,
Since copyright is God, it doesn’t seem so odd
That piracy should cause the nation’s fall.

All hail the One-Party Voters,
Who didn’t even really have to vote,
We knew that we could count on them, and figured all those
Stray votes in, and things came out just like we knew they would.

So all hail the Great Manipulators,
Who turned us to a land of pimps and whores
Who taught our kids to kill, to do it with a will
To the sound of a heavy metal score.

And all hail the Holy Excuse Makers
Who sell insurance from the Great Big Man
Who hawk incense and repentance and talk in great
Big sentences about how moral folks must take a stand.

‘Cause God is a lemming,
And He made us in his image, of this there is no room
For reasonable doubt -- So when you see that cliff a looming
Just get your feet a pumping – you always knew that this was your way out.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:29 pm

The Old Ve-To, by Charles Carreon


Well you say
You're the Congress
Whatever that means
We'll ask Gonzales
When he's done eatin' beans
You gave me a bill
With time limits in it
So I'll veto that shit
And send it back to the Senate
And don't you step on my Old Veto
You can do anything,
But don't forget about my Old Veto.

Well I done decided
You know that's it
The troops are gonna stay
Where I say
The chips are gonna fall
Wherever they may
I'll raise the stakes higher
'Cause that's how I play
But don't 'ya
Forget my Old Veto
You can enact what you want
I'll just give it the Old Veto.

Well they say the nation's
Turning blue again
I'll prove that false
With a stroke of my pen
There is no power
Like the one to say no
So loot, motherfuckers, now go go go
We got 'em with the Old Veto
They can't do a damn thing
When I give them the Old Veto.

Well, I've blown Iraq
But I won't admit it
I'm after Iran
And I just won't quit it
Just try and stop me
I'm on the run
The light is red
That means fun, fun, fun
So watch out, I'll use the Old Veto
I'll run you down in the street
With my Old Veto

Yeah, the Constitution
Is a mighty fine thing
At least for me,
For you it stinks
'Cause I'm the Chief
I'm at the top
I keep the buck movin'
So it never stops
And when I lose I use the Old Veto.
I just tell 'em where to stuff it
And hit 'em with the Old Veto.
Yeah, they'll never know what hit 'em
When I hit 'em with the Old Veto.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:32 pm

The Oracle, by Charles Carreon (14 years old)


Outside Woolworth's and the A & P
Shrieking descriptions of damnation
Stands a demented soldier of Christ
Gnarled hands and twisted mind
Rooted in his grimy book
He teaches only screamable truth
His hands flay the air and his voice
Drones on
Yet his transient flock listens
Listens and answers
Answers with a silent, endless scream.

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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:32 pm

The People, by Charles Carreon

We are the changing-lanes people,
the impatient-waiting-on the on-ramp people
the can't-stand-to-be-stuck behind-a-truck people.
We are the go-up-high-in-the-elevator people,
the live-long-in-a-gymnasium-on-the-exercycle people,
the cash-your-check in the line at the bank people.
We are the ant people, the build-their-hives
above the ground people,
The run-their-carriages on road-of-stone people,
The count-their-dollars in the millions people,
The deck-their-wives with splendid clothing people,
The raise-their-young like spoiled princes people.
We are the television people,
The wash-their-clothes-with Biz people,
The shine-their-cars with fancy wax people,
The comb-their-hair with gleaming mousse people.
We are the inch-deep-roots people,
The insubstantial-as-the-grass people,
The people without real names or memories.
We are the reckless people, the foolish people,
The coming-and-going people,
The crying-like-desolated ghosts people.
We are the people who try to sing themselves
to sleep,
But know no magic songs,
The people who line up to die,
And waken every morning asking why.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:34 pm

The Point Is Nothing, by Charles Carreon

Now lift the knife,
Now plunge it into the heart.

Lift the knife and plunge it in.

The point breaks in all barriers
because it is nothing,
penetrating all things.

Piercing deeper,
its reverberation emanating
from ever-deeper levels
shatters bonds in subtler and subtler places,
and all begins to crack apart
from the inside out.

At last it all dissolves in smoke,
and then in air,
leaving everything clear
and unspoken.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:36 pm

The Samba of Ignorance, by Charles Carreon


(Sing with Carlos-Montalban-pronunciation to a sinuous, sultry beat )

Not everybody likes to dance
Afraid they are of sweet romance
Preferring the samba of ignorance

Inside my rigid thought construction
No mechanism of reproduction
Just the boring noise of self destruction

Oh, samba of ignorance
So sweet entwining passionless
Of concrete make my party dress

The danger's clear my sweet companion
No daring drives through passion's canyons
Go straight to lovers leap and jump in

Oh, samba of ignorance
I can afford it, a small expense,
Free speech is just an extravagance

Oh, samba of ignorance
Let's dance it now and take no chance
Eliminate all happenstance

Oh, samba of ignorance
I'm blinded in your twisting arms
Safe from knowledge and from harm.

(This poem is really about Juan C. Aragon, creator of Buddhistboards.com, who operated under the false name of Bernardo Aragon during 2002-2003. Apologies to the true Bernardo Aragon, who probably is guilty of nothing more than knowing Juan.)
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:38 pm

The Starlit Tomb, by Charles Carreon

[When I was at H.H. Dudjom Rinpoche's birthday party in San Anselmo, California, in 1980, I fell asleep during the Yeshe Tsogyal empowerment. I dreamt that I was looking at a pure white field of crushed pearl dust, and on that white field, as if someone were creating a sand mandala, a red swastika began to appear, pure red like ground rubies. When I awoke, having lost my upright balance, I stuck out my hand sharply for support, which made a loud thump heard throughout the large hall. Everyone turned to look.]

One would like to think that the business of writing is ordinary, that the life of the printed page is simple and direct, but the truth is otherwise.

To be a child of language is to be a slave. A slave to the flow of discourse, to the flow of meaningful sound. Should you fail to heed its insistent flow, you will pay a price.

Nothing surprises one more than loneliness. Just when you think you are insular and self-sustaining, you discover that you are no one when there is nobody but you.

Still you have your words. You can wind meaningful sounds through your fibers of being and seek in meanings transitory and broken the substance of your ignorant knowledge.

The night breaks open like a stone to reveal a heart of emptiness, a tomb of designless design, as quintillions of stars cascade through without explanation or destiny.

You remain wandering in the distance of your precognitions. You persevere in the toiling sands. You wash your water and mind your thoughts. You break down into a tiny pile of ruby dust and frosting of diamonds.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:39 pm

The Trojan Horse, by Charles Carreon

Trojan Horses come in all shapes and sizes
But never in one the receiver despises.
A pleasant appearance,
desirable shape
Still lead to misfortune
Perhaps even rape

So beware sweet words
Which soon turn to gall,
For after fine flattery
It's up 'gainst the wall

Cassandra will tell you
The gift was quite bitter
For only a fool could think
Odysseus a quitter,

There had to be some better
Explanation for why Greeks
would sail away
Abandoning their station

A trick it must be
Thought the lovely princess
But no one would listen
So Troy suffered disaster,
and the image that destroyed them
Bears its name ever after.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:41 pm

The Universe Begins With "A", by Charles Carreon


First the nuclear blast,
the all-encompassing destruction,
The unrestrained expression of complete
and total contempt for all grasping ideas
all forms all precious things strings of jewels
cities full of garbage woods full of wildlife
mountain majesties and whole galaxies
Whoom! It all collapses under the shock wave
Every atom flies apart from every other atom,
Every subatomic particle from every other one
Releasing energy
Pure energy with a sound like laughter.
And like a cinder at the core of the bomb crater,
A tiny blue light glowing unfathomably bright
Then flickering in and out
Getting brighter with each flicker
Till at last, Bam,
He's there, with her
The two of them in wild embrace
Hair wilder than the wildest man of Borneo
Twisting up with locks of flame
Forehead ornamented with five skulls
Frowning brows and bulging eyes
Grimacing jowls and flexing biceps,
A dominating stance, weapons brandished,
No quiet undertow of wisdom this,
But one voice of unrestrained bliss,
While falling from the sky
The endless rain of iron daggers,
big as icebergs, sharp as razors,
Falling with instantaneous precision
on encrustations, forms, formations
Before they have a chance to take shape,
and the blaze of the collision
Is simply the combustion of the carbon
of delusion
Being liberated into the diamond of space.
The universe begins with A,
for Apocalypse.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:43 pm

The Wilshire Bus, by Charles Carreon

I. Overture
This bus rattles on
through the night.
RTD, dirty and doomed,
it slides through its own
Tunnel of poverty
Down bright-lit Wilshire as
the deep blue twilight
enriches the dusk
behind the black tree
silhouettes of the neighborhoods.
Mini-markets, corner malls,
new car showrooms, hair salons
slide by, past scratched-up plexi windows.
At last, almost everyone gets off
before we reach the Westside.
Flashing light red and yellow
bar marquee has
no announcement.
No show tonight.
I've gotta pee.
The Wilshire bus makes you suffer,
drags you painfully down the whole built-up
congested length of town,
till you despair of your life,
of ever reaching your destination
in a timely manner.
Drags you through midtown, and Fairfax,
and Beverly Hills and Westwood and West LA,
and at last, when all the other riders have given up,
it lets you out,
My God, in front of Polly's, which is crammed,
of course, with people who are having a better
time than you are,
presumably they did not have to ride
the Wilshire bus.
II. Winnie-the-Pooh and Tigger Too
Winnie-the-Pooh would not have enjoyed
this trip, nor would Piglet or Christopher Robin.
There would not even be
the possibility of sighting a Heffalump
from this vantage point, although you might
spot some threadbare Tigger lounging
by a mailbox, bumming dimes, if you looked
close enough.
III. Aliens
The Wilshire bus is chocked with people who don't live
where you do, who aren't the same kind of people and
don't live your way, don't bury their noses in books
for the whole trip, don't catch up on their work
between now and McNeil Lehrer, don't do a thing except
stare and rock wearily side to side and back and forth
with no expression.
IV. Sleaze
Forty five minutes after you board and you're barely
in Beverly Hills. The scratch-dimmed glamour goes
sliding by, and the streets all meet at jack-knife
angles. Bright neon, and a glimpse of violet bar light
radiating from the ceiling of a glassed-in booze
emporium. Where's the mescaline house, the DMT lounge,
the ecstasy den? This bus doesn't take you through
V. Pastorale
Now, in the long, smooth stretch going west from where
Santa Monica Boulevard crosses Wilshire, garden hotels
line the streets with high-rise serenity.
Tiny white lights twinkle in delicate tree branches,
the Westwood signature. I see a lobby, and a few hotel
room bedside lamps; I sense a certain TV ambiance. The
bus slows to a stop at an angle I know by the tilt of
the floor is Comstock, the light before Beverly Glen.
I'm coming home. My children are waiting, the video
is waiting, the leather couch, the wooden floor, the
porch light is waiting.
VI. Carnavale
Westwood & Wilshire: at the intersection of dream and
reality, UCLA spills its progeny forth into the
marketplace like a giant uterine canal of higher
education, slick with drink, commerce and bland sex.
They're going for a joyride; if they wanted higher
education, all they'd need to do is catch the Wilshire
VII. Sea Dream
The bus goes whistling past the VA cemetery and the
old brown hospital buildings where I always imagine
T.S. Eliot's patient lying etherized. Where San
Vicente veers off in a northward-sweeping curve to a
cooler climate. (Flashback to another night when a
driver on a lark followed that seductive curve north,
and drove us silently to the beach, through the dark,
cool onshore breeze. We riders were dumbfounded, but
glad to be off Wilshire, the old tyrant; no one spoke
a word -- we picked new stops on the improvised route,
and walked ourselves home by different ways.)
VIII. Home Stretch
The bus driver tonight sticks to the route, and I'm not
dreaming; I'm in the seedy part of Brentwood. There's
the mini mall on Barrington, and the liquor store where
I used to park my bike on the sidewalk and buy one Bass
ale from the middle eastern fellows and their female
companions. Still needing to pee, I feel the potholes
of Santa Monica stabbing my bladder with abandon. We
pass the Wherehouse and Jerry's Liquors, pass
McGinty's, Berk's and Savon, Crown Books, Bagel Nosh
and Vons, Callahans and I must mention the Liquor store
of Norris E. Roberts. There's Lincoln with its
homeless park, and copy shops on left and right, a
seven-eleven selling lotto all night long, and Polly's
old folks coffee shop, at last.
IX. Paso Lento
On the Wilshire Bus you ride
to a destination that is incidentally yours;
you pass by, and may touch
the sequins drooping from the breasts
of an aging whore;
you clutch
at the cold, stainless steel pole, counting street
names like a prayer that you're tired of;
you arrive at last, purified:
the driver's washed his hands,
and you have firmly grasped
your briefcase full of thorns.
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