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.
1984 Christmas Card From the Notorious Carreons, by Charles Carreon
HOLIDAY SPECIALS WE CAN: Obtain money for your pain & suffering O'Keefe's face can be lethal as well. The problem will only get worse. But there's a way out.
Less ALTERNATIVE The good citizens of L.A. cordially invite you to A THAI RESTAURANT the Freeway Concerto for trombone and cars the death of the charioteers Chicano and Mexican music the shine of sweat on male and female alike, hordes of rumpled citizens walking the streets, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed chanting "Koyaanisqatsi" in a deep, booming whisper
And think how twisted we are, the troupe has always dangled from the competitors the collective anguish hell and damnation stink bomb capitalist the classical tradition devilish talent reading, preaching and converting the crowd bicyclists mix with rank amateurs enough to induce vertigo in the hardiest cross between W.C. Fields and Nina Hagen Bring a friend I wanna go. parking limited Merry X-mas from L.A. and the NOTORIOUS CARREONS! LUV-2-ALL
2 AM Swim At The Sunset Cliffs, by Charles Carreon
Pizza slinging done for the night -- After-hours Budweiser consumed. Close the back door. Silent dark streets, ocean roar off to the right -- Japan, China, Hawaii, over there. Beach condos, occupants asleep. Dark waves rolling in. Walking down the sidewalk damp with mist, My shadow goes first before me, then behind, slave to the nearest streetlamp. Cut down from the well-lit cul-de-sac, Squeeze between a wall and some barbed wire, Follow a sandy track to the base of the cliffs. Dark, calm sea, a slopping wet hugeness Clawing softly at the shore. I strip and roll my clothing up, Wade into water black as pitch. The sandy shelf tips sharply down I feel like a pencil about to roll off the edge; three or four steps And the wetness closes over me, limbs floating in a threatening womb, Fathomless, pulling, down, down, deeper -- Appalling to the inner ear; I try to float, abandoning effort, weight, and thought, but I can't Do it. Clearly I see a gleaming knot of twisted iron. That's me/it's death. Back in the land of the living -- My wallet, My pants, My glasses. I'm wet skin. Walking with shoes on back to the travelall. Down the freeway under serials of arc-lamps.
Charles Carreon's re-write of a Dudjom Rinpoche poem (see original below)
A good roar Empties acres of wilderness. On snowy peaks Among waterfalls, My mane hangs loose.
With my sharp eyes and iron talons, Who would hide in a pile of bricks? These wings climb thermals Spiralling staircases That go everywhere -- No one can follow me into the sky.
Flashing fiery stripes In green-leafed chaos Draped with venomous reptiles, I’m safe from everything, and Smell that – what a nice smell!
My wings are crazy fast They wind up and I’m bang-on for those fat blossoms Let’s dive into that pollen Drink up all that sweetness And hummm together
With naked feet and clear sight, I’m happy in here. We can do this. Nice day, huh?
_______________
Dudjom Rinpoche's Version
A song I sang as I was about to depart from Kongpo to wander aimlessly in central Tibet and other regions:
I, a roaring lion, do not need a palace: My lion palace is the snow mountains’ exalted heights. I shake my excellent turquoise mane as I please As I roam at will in delightful snow mountain ravines.
I, an eagle, do not need a fortress: My white eagle fortress is the loftiest cliff. I spread wide my excellent wings as I please As I soar through the space of the vast blue heavens.
I, a tiger, do not need a castle: My tiger castle is the densest jungle. I show off my stripes as I please As I set out to prowl in the best sandalwood forests.
I, a golden bee, do not need farmland: My bee farmland is the fines lotus groves. I sing beautiful melodious songs as I please As I hover to take the sweetest tasting nectar.
I, a yogi, do not need a home: My yogi home is good any place I roam. I naturally achieve my two noble goals As I set out to wander aimlessly as I please.
I Dudjom, spoke this nonsense.
_______________
John Potts' Version
*A song I sang as I was about to depart from Kongpo, to wander aimless in central Tibet and other regions**
I'm a roaring lion, I don't need a palace: My lion palace is the snow mountains’ lofty heights. Shaking my excellent turquoise mane just as I please Freely roaming in delightful snow mountain ravines.
I'm an eagle, I do not need a fortress: My white eagle fortress is the highest cliff. Spreading my excellent wings as wide as I please Soaring through the space in vast heavens of blue.
I'm a tiger, I don't need a castle: My tiger castle is the densest jungle. Flaunting my stripes, just as I please Setting out to prowl the finest sandalwood forests.
I'm a golden bee, I don't need farmland: My bee farmlands are the finest lotus groves. Singing beautiful melodious songs, just as I please Hovering to drink the sweetest tasting nectar.
I'm a yogi, I don't need a home: My yogi's home is good, anywhere I roam. Naturally achieving my two noble goals Setting out to wander aimlessly, just as I please.
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
