Boogaloo Baby and the Ripstop Mama, by Charles Carreon
As we rock the cradle Sky darkens to sable Don't say we're not able to love It's a real miracle singalong At the edge of the lawn With a rocket star pinnacle Pinned to the dawn As we lift up our voices And teeter so tall As if standing on tiptoe Meant anything at all
POETRY
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:39 pm
by admin
Border Song, by Charles Carreon
Reminds me of a week I spent one afternoon in Nogales
The rain was falling heavily With rattlesnakes mixed in You had to use an umbrella and lots of anti-venin
The Border Patrol were hot to go So I said "Hell, why not?" The chicks were cool The road a spool of liquor-signs I thought a Navajo I spied as tall as an old saguaro cactus He just waved As we sped by Wearing a cheerful rictus
Down by the Rio Grande all dressed up like a dandy Coyote swung his watch chain and chewed his cocaine candy We watched the drop the lightning fell Then nothing was left standing but a waterfall of millionaires coming in for a landing
Do you find the workweek long? Does it make your tickle tangle? Just comb your hair With breaths of air And you won't ever strangle when Armadillos talk to you down in old Durango
The waterfall, a wheel of fire still stutters through my sight A rolling thing, with butter wings That melted in the night A phoenix then arising when We close our eyes at last
Two men are running in the dark Running very fast
POETRY
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:43 pm
by admin
Buddhist Horror Flick, by Charles Carreon
Armies of zombie clergy Dragging their malas Wielding crowbars and sacred implements
Led by hordes of vampires Sangha officers and boards of directors Engage in gang warfare, Blasting away at each other With blazing thunderbolts
Hot chick vampire action figures Primed for temptation the new generation Of Mara's Daughters, Slick wet look glossy lipsheen And DiVynyl boots
Steven Seagal eight feet tall Whuppin' them demons One and all With a platoon of phony tulkus Done up Shaolin style Using their malas To garrote heretics
And Ambu up on the pyre Screaming louder and louder While I'm out in the crowd mistaken for a madman [Fade to Black]
POETRY
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:50 pm
by admin
Built to Last, by Charles Carreon
And the mind, they tell us is a chemical phenomenon that psychopharmacologists will wind and bind with chemical tools. They will come up with pills and thrills will be a thing of the past, And humans will run smooth and fast, and built to last. We will become the playthings of an ideology bent on normalcy, The children of the womb refined in a factory of certainty, The troublesome orgy of randomness reduced at last to harmlessness, All watched over by nursemaids paid by the big father in his perfect Laboratory
(Aug '94, Colestine)
SONG
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:53 pm
by admin
Burn Your Bridges, by Charles Carreon
My Dad taught me something When I was young, He was gifted with a silver tongue He made me think that everything Lay within my grasp 'Cause I understood Why it pays to be good.
He always said Burn your bridges, my son Make no preparation for retreat Don't think about gettin' beat Just burn your bridges And you'll see There's only one road ahead And it's the one you make So burn your bridges Every one.
It's a terrifying leap That we make each day Through the gates of hell At least it seems that way All the signs are misleading I can't believe what I'm reading Somehow gotta make it pay Anyway
So I burn my bridges One more time Set out on the road that is mine Toward the smoke of bridges burning My mind will not be turning Yes I've burned my bridges One more time.
Some people worry they'll be dead someday I don't tend to think that way I've lost everything I ever had And hasn't really been all that bad The taste of the good old days Lingers on
I've never been of the world of men Probably had 'bout enough of them I could burn those bridges And feel fine. Yes I'll burn some bridges Anytime.
SONG
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 6:57 pm
by admin
Bush Riders Outta Control, by Charles Carreon
A stranger rode straight into town The fear was in his eyes He gulped a shot and then once more And said, “What I’d advise, Is saddle up and ride as hard and fast As you can ride – There’s Bush riders comin’ Bush riders outta control.”
He didn’t have to say it twice, A mob made for the door, The bartender yelled out, “Last call!” And I called out, “One more.” I had a winning poker hand And had been about to raise When my poker game was ended By the stranger’s maddened phrase –
Yippee-I-O Yippee-I-Ay Bush riders comin', Bush riders outta control.
I might not had a mentioned That I’m from Tennessee So I figured that I’d stick around And see what I could see. I’d seen some ruffians down south With snake-eyes in their souls So I figured I’d get a load of these Bush riders outta control.
The eastern sky turned dark as pitch As they moved toward the west When they hit the edge of town They didn’t stop for gas, Just shifted to a lower gear And yelled as they drove past, “We’re just the advance column, so watch out for your ass.”
And soon we saw what they had meant, It was a dreadful sight. An eclipse came down o’er the town And plunged it into night, And like a wounded animal A siren shrieked in fright. Then Cheney’s voice cried, “Open fire!” And they put out the lights.
The shooting went on all night long While Rumsfeld danced a jig Then out came Condoleezza Riding on a pig. And Cheney with his shotgun Shot friends and foes alike Then the most fearsome among them Stepped right up to the mike.
He had a folksy manner And a kind of Texas drawl He said, “We kicked old Saddam’s ass, And got ourselves a haul, So let’s just do some drinkin’ And all let down our hair, ‘Cause tomorrow when the sun comes up We’ll all be billionaires.”
From where I hid I still could see The clouds above his head, As if an older evil Had took his place instead, With swastikas and murder camps And instruments of dread, It blasted through the megaphones And straight into my head.
Yippee-I-O Yippee-I-Ay There's Bush riders comin', Bush riders outta control.
Then they raised up a gleaming cross To honor their own dead. The Chief swept off his cowboy hat And placed it on his chest. He said, “These boys have died for us And the values we hold best, Now send their parents letters And burn ‘em like the rest.”
When they broke camp there wasn’t much They hadn’t broke or stole. Just fire, wreckage, ruin And the smell of burning oil. ‘Cause underneath that Christian hide there lurks a demon soul, Who let the devils out of hell With just two words, “Let’s roll!”
Yippee-I-O Yippee-I-Ay Bush riders comin', Bush riders outta control. Yeah there's Bush riders comin', Bush riders outta control!
SONG
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 7:04 pm
by admin
Buy American, by Charles Carreon
One more Monday morning in the USA Twenty thousand people lost their jobs today We’re payin’ mercenaries To fight some stupid war If it isn’t over oil, Then what the hell’s it for?
There’s a scary sound, There’s a gathering danger People talkin’ loud Voices raised in anger
And if ya turn on the radio, Whatta they say? They’re givin’ billionaire bankers bonus pay, They say ya can’t say no, It’s the American way,
So BUY AMERICAN DIE AMERICAN BUY AMERICAN, HEY, HEY, HEY, HEY!
One more Monday night in Afghanistan, Kids try to do their homework without hands There’s an enemy around here somewhere, We gotta draw a line in the sand, I wonder why they hate us? We’ve killed all that we can.
There’s a scary sound, There’s a gathering danger People talkin’ loud Voices raised in anger
And if ya turn on the Fox news What’s Hannity say? Ta win hearts and minds, Ya gotta blow ‘em away, As long as ratings go up, It’s a perfect war, So hand me that flag, I’ll show what it’s for,
Go BUY AMERICAN DIE AMERICAN BUY AMERICAN, HEY, HEY, HEY, HEY!
Military preparations never cease Congress meets the generals on bended knee They offer them our nation With heartfelt gratitude, But they couldn’t protect the Pentagon From a fuckin’ missile, Dude!
The masses getting rude Our schools are total failures Our people have no pride We live in tents and trailers
And in the grocery line The magazines say You can lose ten pounds in fifteen ways Bin Laden seen with Elvis in Paris France Brad’s kicked out, Angelina wears the pants,
So BUY AMERICAN DIE AMERICAN BUY AMERICAN, HEY, HEY, HEY, HEY!
POETRY
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 7:07 pm
by admin
Campus, by Charles Carreon
The lawns are clean on campus-- The students do not raise a rumpus; They are busy memorizing Tales of Uncle Remus.
Of the poor they say, "We do not see them and They cannot see us." To the strong they say, "Might, I know, makes right-- Give me your hand, And turn out the light."
To themselves they say, "You are the child, You are the heir; There is no time To speak of what is fair."
SONG
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 7:09 pm
by admin
Can't Change the Channel, by Charles Carreon
Well ya wake up in the mornin’ And ya got nothin’ to do There ain’t no job to go to And there’s nothin’ on the tube
But you can’t change the channel No matter how you try Even though ya’ got a hundred They all repeat the Lie
Ya’ got your blonde wearin’ blue And a guy talkin’ red Ya’ got your weather and your sports The rich and the dead
Ya’ got your stocks goin’ up And your bonds goin’ down Ya’ got your stars and the drugs And your hip-hop clowns
And behind the screen ya’ know It’s like the Truman Show Some guy callin’ the shots But you will never know
Is this war for real? Are those people really dead? Do cops really do that? Let’s TIVO that again…
Well you can’t change the channel And you can’t get a job But you can vote with your remote Part of the digital mob
Now politics is worthless, It’s all part of the game If you haven’t got a dollar Nobody knows your name
Now Coke, Sprite and Pepsi Are things I understand They serve Kentucky Chicken In the promised land
You don’t want to change the channel After all what would you do? Without your guy talkin’ red And your chick wearin’ blue
You’d be a rat without a maze A cop without a gun A politician with no bribe And that would be no fun
Thank God we can’t change the channel No matter what we do ‘Cause one’s the perfect number So who would count to two?
Ya’ got your stocks goin’ up And your bonds goin’ down Ya’ got your stars and the drugs And your hip-hop clowns
And behind the screen ya’ know It’s like the Truman Show Some guy callin’ the shots But you will never know.
POETRY
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 7:12 pm
by admin
Cat Whiskers, by Charles Carreon
Dirt tracks footstepped all over by the marching lines of beings Deer tracks with little piles of deer shit here and there like shrines Cow tracks, heavy trodden down hooved over sod dried flops of undigested fiber City streets, winding highways, stinking rivers Sewage treatment plants blowing plumes of flaming methane in the dark Poisonous clouds, grimy windows, callused hands, sore throats City window lights, shower stalls, bedrooms, televisions Bare spots on the carpet, holey linoleum Threadbare cuffs, blinking eyeball Grease spattered on the stove, dusty television screen Mildewed shower curtain, empty pill bottle, cat whiskers the television widow crochets a bedroom of lace the sun streams always over the coverlets Singularly lost amid the clutter of wires Branching bouquets of wandering flowers Through the mesh and the web of the undertaker puppeteer Invisible paths trace unheard-of symmetries Working into a dark nucleus Waiting as in Before the Yet To Come