Whoa, Earth, I want to dismount, Said the Buddha and got off, Letting the orb resume its spinning, Humanity continue sinning, Now he's standing there in space An azure smile upon his face Which is to say Without a trace.
POETRY
Posted: Tue Oct 01, 2013 10:29 pm
by admin
Windy Weather Sets You To Thinking, by Charles Carreon
Wind-whipped morning, Steel-gray light.
Spring is a sure thing now, and winter's in a panic, pulling out all the stops like a cop hoping for a suspect, whipping up a river of air that buffets everything and sprays chilly droplets against the windows like buckshot. Over this rough conduct preside impassive clouds whose gray faces do not even pass judgment. The sun like a friendly accomplice trying to lend a hand probes with slender knives but can't even slip an edge of daylight through the stuck casement of dawn. The woods struggle on in the gloom trying to pull off the job. Individual trees are only as sure of staying in their place as their trunks and roots are firm. They cross their branches and hope for the best.
Easy to lose your foothold in this world, and never get it back. So when we hear strong winds blow and big branches creaking, It sets us to thinking.
A wind can fell a human as easy as a tree. A person's roots aren't so deep. And like a tree, when a person goes down for real, We others can't help them up.
Do trees mourn fallen brethren who go down with a crash? Do they think, "There go I when the next wind blows," or "Life is short, make sugar now?"
Probably not, and still, sap is flowing, and after the difficult wind, Spring comes for every one still standing.
(February, 1998)
POETRY
Posted: Tue Oct 01, 2013 10:33 pm
by admin
World Class Buddhist Shopper, by Charles Carreon
How's a man to be happy When the world won't turn the right way? How can I be happy When the wind's always in my face? How can I accept a situation That so contradicts my will?
The whole universe insults me Never asking what I want, And though I don't get tortured I still get treated bad, And if this isn't my worst lifetime It's the worst one that I've had.
All my wantings unfulfilled, No provisioning for my needs -- It's such a tragic oversight And never remedied.
No time to think of others For my sympathies are otherwise occupied With brooding over every slight That life has ever dealt me.
This is my inspiration, and I hold it to my breast, To look around at all of life And know what I detest.
Like a demanding Bergdorf shopper Or devoted Neiman bargain hunter, I'll find myself the best of all This universe provides,
And I'll find it sooner than all of the saps That shop in sleazy places, I'm a discerning Buddhist buyer Of the wisdom of the ages.
SONG
Posted: Tue Oct 01, 2013 10:40 pm
by admin
Workin' For The CIA, by Charles Carreon
Well it's another perfect day in the neighborhood With perfect people everywhere Painting picket fences and makin' double lattes, Workin' for the CIA.
There's not a whole lotta places a guy can go To find employment and security. The whole private sector is just a show, A cover for the CIA.
We come in all shapes and sizes Don't you know, Mohamedan, Christian and Jew, Buddhist and Taoist even some of us Believe in Sai Baba, too But under the skin We're all blacker than sin Workin' for the CIA.
Yeah the money's good here And it spends real fine Printed by the CIA, And there's plenty of jobs in interrogation Workin' for the CIA, Ya get to know your neighbors, Ya get to know the truth About a whole lot of things We know about you, Yeah there's a whole lotta perks With a company spot, Workin' for the CIA.
See that guy over there In the cycle shop, And that bum smokin' crack at the old bus stop, That postal employee cleanin' out the box, All workin' for the CIA.
It's just another perfect day In the neighborhood, Developed by the CIA. And if you're not plugged in It might not be so good, I mean with the CIA. So we'll be by again and see just what you think, And remember it's just CIA. CIA.
POETRY
Posted: Tue Oct 01, 2013 10:41 pm
by admin
Worst Horse, by Charles Carreon
Sorrowful endings, Endless mendings, Long nights spent in loneliness and grief.
Stars grinding in the heavens, heart laboring in heavy, dull thudding, the mind overrun by armies of disenchantment. Night is truly the time of bereavement.
Boxing up sorrows wholesale, making a pyre of regrets, a bonfire of woe, Ah the heavens cry and to their song we add our painful wail.
How long before release? How many deserts must be crossed? How many graves must be filled? How many wombs passed through? How many days? How many lives? How many times to taste the honeyed knife?
No number will suffice until the time is right. The worst horse runs at last, Feeling the pain of the whip In the marrow of his bones.
POETRY
Posted: Tue Oct 01, 2013 10:43 pm
by admin
Yearning To Fly, by Charles Carreon
When I was just a little boy, I thought a lot of things I loved to fly toy airplanes With rubber bands and strings
It seemed a thing most magical To fly up in the sky, And I longed to be an eagle With a sharp-far-seeing eye
Yet the years went by My eyes grew dim And I never flew a stroke Before I knew it I was gone, A victim of false hopes
A man, I learned, just walks this earth From his birthplace to his grave And there are few remembered The lovely and the brave
Our story will be no different Than all who came before, Except that for our carelessness Perhaps there'll be no more
No you may think this is a tiresome tune With a cheery melody But I'm not sellin' lollipops, That must be plain to see
I'm a prophet in a taproom A real orphan's son With a chip perched on my shoulder And an appetite for fun
So if I chap your hide Or tread upon beliefs That's why God invented beer So we wouldn't drown in grief
So have another drink with me my friend We'll negotiate our way around this bend Somehow people will muddle through Somehow you and I both do, So have another drink with me my friend
Well, back to being a little boy As I previously said Who'd seen the birds in flight And got it in his head
That maybe he could fly So he jumped from garage rooftops But he didn't wanna die So he never jumped off anything really very high
SONG
Posted: Tue Oct 01, 2013 10:45 pm
by admin
You Got Played, by Charles Carreon
(Sing to "Heart of Stone," by the Rolling Stones)
There’ve been so many Voters I’ve known Democrats are so dumb Just like Republicans
Here comes the little girl, Pushing her baby down the street She’s all by herself, Using food stamps get somethin’ to eat,
And I’ll promise change Promise change Promise CHANGE And then forget… I’ll go to Washington, but I’ll forget now.
Another election? A fait acomplit ... You could vote for that other guy, Yeah, if you wanna die. And you know you won’t Know you won’t Know you won’t Know you won’t Stand alone You can’t stand alone, baby, need a man beside you.
You keep on hopin’ I’ll remember someday And I’ll lead you on, Yes on and on and on,
The bankers are my friends, But ain’t I good to you? Didn’t send you to Guantanamo, Didn’t beat you black and blue,
So you’ll never leave, Never leave, Never leave, You gotta come home, You gotta come home to poppa babe.
You think you are different? That you’ll “occupy” But you just sat in your tent Tryin’ to avoid the rent. Couldn’t come up with no demands, Playin’ your little anarchist games, Hate to tell you baby, You’re all pretty lame, And some day you’ll see Day you’ll see Day you’ll see Day you’ll see, You just got played, Played by me, yeah, I was the player Played by me, Yeah baby you just got played, Played by me.
POETRY
Posted: Tue Oct 01, 2013 10:46 pm
by admin
Zombies Don't Come, by Charles Carreon
It all happened right here, in me. The whole thing everything right here peter frampton was right i'm in you You're in me probably not how he meant it but anyway saw him once at the Ventura County Fair by the beach poor bastard me, I mean stuck in a motel with wife and daughter the daughter and I decided to see the show Actually, he was pretty good And then I remembered He was the guitarist in Humble Pie Who fried my brain At the celebrity theatre on a full hit of orange sunshine Came on after Loggins & Messina had me all blissed out and electrocuted my ass Goddamn singer talking cockney smack about a run-in with a London whore Uuuuuuugghh Dragged my mind through the fuck'n gutter Then ground me through a brutal version of I don't need no doctor Killer tune Killed me about a dozen times Then, when I was dead, Turned me into a zombie With everyone else And moshed us psychically with his fuzztone Including the bit where the bass player goes real quiet Then cranks it up to eleven So the whole floor falls out from under you and everyone else And the whole room has an orgasm sorta except for me cause I'm a zombie and I know it unlike the rest of them and zombies don't come
Re: Poetry & Songs, by Charles Carreon
Posted: Sun May 17, 2015 2:19 am
by admin
The Ballad of Javier Solis by Charles Carreon
The DEA came into town, One dark and slimy day, Dressed like punker-hippie- military-tattooed scum, With consecutively numbered stacks of Treasury-issued cash To do some deals and add some meth to Uncle Sammy's stash.
They haunted bars and strip joints Like real tattooed scum, They hung around, talked shit And told pornographic jokes, Treated Mexes at the bar Like ordinary folks, And at suspicious intervals Got up to take a whiz, Made faces like they'd copped a buzz, And were always up for biz.
Well soon they'd rounded up A nice young man from Nayarit Who swore his uncle knew a man Whose crank was pure and sweet, He tossed off his tequila, The cops poured him one more, They set the deal to go down In a chicken coop at four. Those doughty DEA guys thought They'd hatched a nice surprise.
At three o’clock, the backup team Arrived at their spot on a ridge above The chicken coop described. In the dry and dusty valley The snipers cleaned their sights.
At four o’clock, the narcs rolled up All bad in their Mustang 5. With their bag of funny-money, And swaggering gangster panache, With their visible guns and hidden badges, They were ready for anything, Hoping for action.
Behind a counter in the heat Sat a man with a poundscale, A scoop, and some bags, A heap of some whitish substance, And a smile as warm as the sun. The scum looked at each other, And jerked their guns real fast. But the Mexican started laughing, And waved his hands at last.
He wasn't frightened, didn't cry, And explained in perfect Spanish, The fertilizer was not that dear, And there was no need to steal it. Besides the boss had always said The police were all their friends. “What's that guys name?” A Spanish-speaking cop was quick to ask. "Oh, he's well known around these parts. He's called Javier Solis."
Then the man was very helpful, And showed the DEA How he mixed the powders and liquids In a manner he'd well-memorized: "Two scoops of this, one scoop of that, Mix well and cook with this. Decant, then strain, and filter again. We made several pounds each day, And at the end of every week, Solis took it all away, Bringing beans, tortillas, chile, Bacon, chicken, cabbage too. A very good man Solis was, Kind and honest, just like you. I'm sure he'd want you to have it, So take a pound or two."
They took him into custody But hell, it was no fun. He knew it was a mixup And didn't try to run, Besides, they'd got the name now Of a local drug kingpin. They decided they should go back Undercover for a spin.
Back in town, they quietly whispered To the guys in the strip-bar toilet That they sought Javier Solis. Like a charm, the name Drew forth laughs and knowing nods. "Sure," said a dapper fellow Slicking his hair in the mirror, "He goes to that one place all the time ... You remember ese," he says, Turning to his comrade, Whose head bobs in agreement, "It's in that town where the mill gone closed, A little bar, where I think he owns a share, Cause him and his homies, They're always drinkin there."
So they went to the bar in the town up the road, And asked if Solis was there. A helpful fellow answered "Dude, you missed him, He was here, But I know where he's going, And if you hurry You might catch him there."
And so they went from town to town, Chasing old Solis on down, Till at last their Mustang lights Revealed a motel by a lettuce field, Where an old Marine smokin' Chesterfields, Was watchin’ TV at the manager's desk.
They told him, whispering closely, They were looking for Javier Solis. The manager squinted, and twisted his head And answered “Say that again?” They repeated themselves, And when he was sure that they’d said What he thought they had said, He started to laugh, And turned to the screen Where a charro with a guitar on horseback Serenaded a girl with long, black hair. As he smiled with satisfaction, he said, “That’s the man, right there.”
Re: Poetry & Songs, by Charles Carreon
Posted: Sun May 24, 2015 3:49 am
by admin
You Can’t Defeat an Avocado by Charles Carreon
(It’s like a wind that blows a thousand miles an hour. You will be like -- “All my shit has been blown away…”)
Yeah many man's tried And many man's died Because you can’t defeat An avocado An avocado may look small But inside, it’s ten feet tall, That’s why you can’t defeat an avocado You may learn some lessons in your life From your husband or your wife But until you see the light You don’t know wrong from right But you need never fear The avocado’s here And you can’t defeat an avocado We’re takin’ bets here every night The smart money’s always right And you bet That it’s on The avocado Because you can’t No you can’t You just can’t No you can’t You just can’t Defeat An avocado Like Napoleon at Waterloo My friend that will be you If you attempt to overthrow An avocado Yeah, like Hitler at Stalingrad It will be that bad If you try to defeat An avocado Now wine comes from grapes And people came from apes But an avocado has a pit And that’s just the heart of it! So you can’t No you can’t No you can’t No you can’t You just can’t defeat an avocado