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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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 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 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 Ambu Baba AND THE FORTY THIEVES Ambu Baba AND THE FORTY THIEVES
[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 findings.
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 else. 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 return. 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.
Winter's the time most geometric When things, divested of their flesh, Reveal the simple symmetries of bone.
The hogwire fence, its horizontals crushed Together, exhibits a complex surface of invisible Planes, windows to light and air, evolving from each other.
The pure white rhombus of a salt-box roof Evenly covered with inches of snow, rounded All along the edge, lies silent, an ideal achieved,
Displayed against the mutating density Of gray sky-surface. And if a bird Were to sing now, its voice would find No competitor.
Anesthetize him Lay him on the table Impress his shoulder with a stocking label Give him some saline-- 'bout four c-c's He needs some wheels to replace those knees He'll be so thankful-- never have cold feet Just oil the rollers and they never squeak
He'll be an android, android-- better than a man An android, android-- part of the plan. An android, android well built and well adjusted An android, android employees to be trusted.
Remove the cranium cap-- Set it in the pan We'll be replacing it As quick as we can Insert a clock in the occipital node He'll always know just when it's time to go He'll never waken too late for work-- He'll wake at seven and sit up with a jerk. Connect the stimulator to the pleasure center It's cheaper than dope and works much better-- Now wire up those jaws in the usual way-- He'll eat through tubes and he won't have much to say Just mopping floors and swabbing toilets every day He'll be so happy in his android way--
He'll be an android, android-- better than a man An android, android-- part of the plan. An android, android well built and well adjusted An android, android employees to be trusted.
Implant infra-sensors in the optic nerves So night or day he will be there to serve Graft laser blasters to his index fingers, He won't be too attractive, But we're not building night-club singers. Just you imagine what his mother would say, She'd be so proud to see him here this way, Her work improved on-- deficiencies amended, He's so employable we ought to be commended!
He's an android, android-- better than a man An android, android-- part of the plan. An android, android well built and well adjusted An android, android employees to be trusted.