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 9:48 pm

The World Won't Work Anymore, by Charles Carreon

I can't have a cup of coffee without gunning down
a peasant.
I can't drive my car for all the rubber we stole
and the oil, too.
I can't use the telephone with all that stolen
copper wire stretching across our country
I can't watch TV for all the silent words the
network newsman won't whisper (I'd like to
shake him by the collar, damn him, why won't he
just call it murder!)
I can't listen to the radio for all the inane
gibberish they want to pour in my ear
While they are telling me to forget I hear it more
I want to go, go away from here
The earth stinks so much like buffalo blood and
bad whiskey and the grass grows like iron,
like twisted words
I can't look at the bananas,
they leer like speckled corpses
Even California raisins remind me of Indians
who starved to death rather than hoe grapes
under the benevolent eyes of the padres
The world doesn't work any more; I'm afraid
it's my enemy.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:52 pm

The Yurt, by Charles Carreon


the yurt is round
(when I built it three years ago
my fellows in the grocery store
took this as final proof of what
they'd suspected all along, i.e.
terminal weirdness)
at any rate it is round, a round
latticework of two-by two's number
one select fir, free of knots
-- rough pine siding and plain old
composition roofing
in the center of the cone shaped ceiling
there's a domed skylight; the whole
house is like an eye and the sun
is always peering in
In the morning in winter it rises, shining
just above the kitchen counter, an ellipse
of light on the blue fabric of the wall
At around ten it shines on the breakfast
table, while dishes get picked up and the
second cup of coffee gets cold
Around noon there's a circle of light on
the floor in front of the trapezoidal-shaped
front door our friends and we all hate
(Matthew calls it the ankle buster, and
it is) and so the sundial gives us a con-
stant reading on the day till at last the
light slides up the roofbeam toward the
sunset, probably behind some clouds
appendix a: things you might find
outside the yurt
Peach pits
Old nails, half embedded in mud
fragments of white plastic spoons
remains of a rodent waylaid by cats
the cats -- Mellow Yellow, a friendly
fellow whose mild manner belies his
skill as a successful carnivore, and
Grey Cat, a self-satisfied shorthair
who avoids human company
An oak chopping block with the bark
still on it
A very small woodpile with a gimcracky
rain-cover made of scraps and those
thin, aluminum offset plates the Tidings
sells for thirty cents
A fifty gallon tank of water (lasts four
A bunch of sunflower heads hung up in
burlap on the end of a roof beam
Whatever the wind blew out from under
the house
Coffee grounds coming out of the drain
A little comfrey plant
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:56 pm

They're Looking So Pretty, by Charles Carreon


They're looking so pretty, tonight
Coiffed and suited just right
All of their sound bites prepared
Schooled on the issues, a little bit scared

They will cross swords oh so light
Blades barely meeting and smiles drawn tight
Billions will ride on their answers
And voters will make their selections.

Still there are times when you just have to wonder
Is the whole thing an incredible blunder?
While we compare hairstyles,
The sky starts to thunder
Tornadoes appear on our doorsteps
I wonder, are we on the verge
of a thousand-year bummer?

No one will touch that, tonight
Which is why Gore is nowhere in sight
We'll have plenty of style,
A side of issues-lite,
A sneer from the right,

They're looking so pretty, tonight
Sexy, formal, an anchor's delight
They'll charm everyone in sight
It's like a lamp store in here, it's so bright.

Teeth gleaming, hair sculpted
Meticulous cosmetic morphing
Into perfect candidates,
The kind who never quite debate,
At best get testy
Are never late

But we must cast our ballots, tonight
On what basis? Who knows wrong from right?
Let's just be fools for a night,
We'll vote, but first turn out the light.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:58 pm

Tibetan Two-Step, Shuffle & Slide, by Charles Carreon

(Perform while wearing seersucker suit and straw boater hat with ukelele accompaniment.)

There's a sucker born every minute
In the good ole USA,
I got here through religion, and here I'm gonna stay.

Just stand right there
Don't scare the crowd,
I've got wisdom teachings, so gather 'round.

It's true you've heard tales of monastery life
How it's filled with depravity and extra wives
But where we gonna go? It's cold outside.

The spiritual path is hard to travel,
But in an antique Rolls
The miles just unravel.

So whaddaya expect a guru to do
But pass the crumpets,
Wouldn't you?

So listen up kids,
Not many can boast
That they told you the truth before they ate your toast

And before you say no, remember first
I'm the best of what's left
And you could do a lot worse!
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:59 pm

To Rage, by Charles Carreon

To rage is commonly seen as a thing unfeminine, obscene,
but when you show us how you really feel,
it's more stimulating than when you seem serene.

To rage is rarely done in public, still less often
With those of dull wit, but the pleasure of passion
never passes from fashion in the palaces of pain.

To rage without a limit, without rein, is something timid souls
Can't but disdain, so they linger at the edges, fingering
The lemon wedges, till at last their final hour's passed away.

Of rage I've known the flower, the exulting, burning hour
When every plaster idol crashes down, and at the ruins
Of the temple, I cast no backward glance,
For when you rage you have to give in to the dance.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 10:00 pm

Tough Lady, by Charles Carreon

[This poem is not really very good, but it has a story behind it. The lady referred to in the first line is Gaea Laughingbird, or at least so she once was known. Back when she and her husband Shandor Rainbow Wind were in the first flush of their plumage. She, I sneered, exhibited her ignorance by referring to Colestine, a tough biker whore of a valley, as a pristine mountain valley. Yeah, once you peel off the tatoos and fifteen years of cigarette lines. You know she's been rode hard, and I don't mean down the highway. ]
Tough Lady

One lady, in a flight of fancy,
Likes to call it a pristine mountain valley.
It is nothing of the sort.
It is a logged-out, kicked around,
beaten up old piece of land,
Scarred with deep-rutted skid roads,
robbed of its tall timber,
The haunt only of tough critters --
Porcupine, jackrabbit, quail, gopher snakes,
rattlers, the occasional bear, and of course,
People, whom Don Juan said must of necessity
Find inhospitable places ideal.
It reminds me of somebody who's been in a fight --
a real sonofabitchin' fight that lasted a long
time, until teeth were knocked out and ribs
were broken and knuckles were bloodied and both
participants fell back and looked at each other
with suspicion and a shade of respect, feeling
the absent tooth with a probing tongue.
Some people, self included, have called it land-
rape, but the more I reflect,
The more I conclude that Colestine's given
As good or better than she's taken,
And tired as she looks, I'm sure she'll make it
One more round.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 10:02 pm

Trans-Human, by Charles Carreon

You have heard of this thing?
Sounds better than cyborg, no?
I am so afraid
of dying
I want to upload myself
To a microchip
But then someone
Might snap me into their network
And I couldn't run away
Nein Danke!
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 10:04 pm

Trash, by Charles Carreon


Follow her down the streets,
down the dingy sidewalks,
in her ashen footsteps -- Trash.
She's strung out on him,
and he's nowhere to be found,
and I'm hung up on her,
just hanging around,
so we're both Trash.
But she's the Queen of the Night
in my twisted sight,
and down the sooty streets
I follow, hypnotized,
until she wearies and her weary
steps lead up the shabby stairs to a
room with a TV desert view.
Frizzed hair, once blonde, is now a cinder,
soft skin, once clear as diamond's
turning back to coal; all this
I see as I argue with her, at
the bus stop, by the change machine,
in the pool hall where she's looking
for her thing.
Trash, she's turned to trash,
my emanation, on probation,
turning back toward gates of
darkness once again; they
hypnotize her, draw her back
to worthless contemplations leading in.
This is priceless degradation, but I'm
leaving now; you won't turn to
say goodbye, just sitting on the
couch with listless eyes; you'd do
anything I'd ask you to, you're
so demoralized.
I close the door and walk back
down the stairs, while television
voices echo in the air.
Goodbye, beloved Trash,
Your soul all turned to ash --
The television images of glamour
that once danced in your hair
Are permanently gone.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 10:06 pm

TV Man, by Charles Carreon

[It's not always possible to write a good poem, but we still have issues. TV is not a subject that we find it easy to deal with poetically. Oil and water might get along better than TV and poetry. I mean, have you ever seen "The Hour of Poetry," or "Great Poets Remembered," even on A&E? This rhyme takes aim at the great glass teat.]
The TV the TV the TV
is the thing we use
to soothe our brains
and make our troublesome thoughts all loose
We sit in front of the screen --
Soak up the rays
I heard a man once sat there
for a hundred days
His wife and children
they thought he was dead
But then he yawned and
took himself
He was a TV man
a real TV hero
Don't anyone say the lie that he was
a real zero
He was a TV man
he lived in a TV land
he had a TV brain
don't anyone say insane
He watched the news
He watched the sports
With a smoke in his hand --
in his undershorts
He watched the weather
He watched the wars
And a personal talk with Louie L'Amour
He watched the Carson
He watched the games
He watched the soaps with
arduous names
He watched the movies made for TV
And an expose of democracy
He watched until there was nothing left
And the news was a re-run
like all the rest
He patiently sat with his TV set
Until there wasn't any dumber
that he could get
And having done that
he knew he could go to bed,
Because there wasn't one thing
left in his whole damn head
And from then on he had no trouble
From that day he felt no pain
'Cause he'd killed off all of the thinking
In his god-given brain
He could smile at everyone
His friends said he was more fun
But he always said it was
That anyone couldn't have done
He said, "I'm a TV man,
I live in a TV land,
and I'm very proud to say
I think it's a damn good way."
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 01, 2013 10:08 pm

Umbilicus, by Charles Carreon


Dragging out of my heart
this long, sinuous rope,
The bloody umbilical cord of sorrow,
shrunken and knotted,
dotted with cares,
Still pulling gently,
weakening the roots,
The placenta of selfhood
still adhering to the uterus
where I was formed ...
Come on baby,
it's over,
let go of it
and let it come out now,
you don't need it any more.
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