Altruistic World Online Library

I Am Attached, by Charles Carreon



I am attached --
to the earth, by the weight she
 gives my body
I am attached --
to eating, by hunger
to breath, by the mysterious
desire for air
I am attached --
to my mate, by the need for warmth
and companionship
 to my children
by genetic strands and webs of delight
to other people,
 by being like them
to mountains and streams and
deserts and winds and ocean waves
 lamplight in the dark
 Moonlight at midnight
I am attached to
 the web of being
so completely, look at me
 and you everywhere in everything
We are attached.

I Ask You, by Charles Carreon

He lived and died anonymously.
He had no friends that he could call upon
When he was in trouble and he often was

He drank incessantly as a true expression
Of his confusion, and could not spare a minute
To reflect upon causes or consequences.
He picked his acquaintances carelessly,
According to convenience, and thus was often
disappointed by their poor sense of timing.
He declined to follow through on things,
and his idea of a good sense of closure
was leaving.
When his mother died, the last person on earth
to have any interest in his whereabouts
disappeared.
When he died, it was like a star went out
that nobody had been looking at or ever noted.
And I ask you do you care?

I Became a Luddite, by Charles Carreon



Machines are the slaves
Of the modern day,
No need for men to labor
At a poor man’s pay
Microchips used to make me
Feel all right
They powered my iPod
And the tunes were tight
Then one day there came a money crunch
And a Chinese robot ate my lunch

And I became a Luddite
Overnight!

I used to carry my guitar
In a gunny sack
Go to Circle K
For a midnight snack
Hot dogs, pudding pops
Were really cool
I ate that shit
Like a fuckin’ fool
Then the doc said I had colon cancer
In a New York minute I had the answer

And I became a Luddite
Overnight!

I used to have a girlfriend
Her name was Rita
Then I got a computer
And I ceased to meet her
All night deep in Internet
Seein’ silicone chicks
Havin’ cybersex
Then one day I got my credit card bill
And I was a Jack without a Jill

And I became a Luddite
Overnight!

I Don't Love Lucy, by Charles Carreon





Well who is Ricky Ricardo?
The plastic Latino
Married Lucille Ball
And played Cubano
In a Music Hall.

Lucy! Lucy!
I don’t love you
Not because of all the things you do
They say you’re funny
But I know you’re not
Lucy Lucy
I think you’re hot.

Your buddy Ethel is a laugh and a half
But I think you’ve
Got an incredible ass
Let’s get Ricky outta the way
I’m four years old
And it’s time to play

Lucy! Lucy!
I don’t love you
Not because of all the things you do
They say you’re funny
But I know you’re not
Lucy Lucy
I think you’re hot.

Hollywood is an incredible place
You’re like a clown with
Makeup on your face
You’re like a bird
Lookin’ weird and proud
You make my uncles laugh out loud.

Lucy! Lucy!
I don’t love you
Not because of all the things you do
They say you’re funny
But I know you’re not
Lucy Lucy
I think you’re hot.

I don’t love Lucy
No, no, no
She isn’t funny
Let me go
Stuck in the living room
She makes me twitch
Now where the hell do I feel that itch?

Lucy! Lucy!
I don’t love you
Not because of all the things you do
They say you’re funny
But I know you’re not
Lucy Lucy
I think you’re hot.
Lucy Lucy
I think you’re hot.

Idle Musing, by Charles Carreon

Honestly now,
that's how I'd like to take it,
bit by bit,
One thing at a time.

Like an idle chipmunk,
watch the morning,
the undersides of the leaves lit brightly,
the sky perfect blue.

If there were an infinite number of angels,
and one blew a trumpet,
Would all the others clap?

Idyll, by Charles Carreon

The lazy boy is in love
with the milkmaid.

Her skin is as fresh as cream,
her laughter is enchanting,
her hair hangs down in beautiful strands.

She is laughing at something
he said.

I Got My Buddhas, by Charles Carreon

I got my Buddhas over here.
I got my rock stars over here.
I got my politicians over here.

I meditate here.
I rock out over here.
And I listen to CNN.

Don't mix my meditation with my political persuasion.
Don't mix my rock and roll with my wisdom.
That guy's all right but he don't bring salvation.

You keep buggin' me with all this confusion.
You gonna have ta' get on your knees
And say your Act of Contrition.

In Town, by Charles Carreon

In town the earth is paved
strips of green maintained with effort
Fertilized, trimmed, shorn of luxuriance
Spaces on the sidewalk reserved for trees
chosen, doubtless, for their tractability,
Their tendency, proven to the planners,
to grow without buckling the sidewalks.
Cars -- the city is made for our cars
air for their carburetors
asphalt for their wheels
filling stations for their thirst
And the town is full of the sound of their effort
Which is the shifting of gears
the purr of a late model import
the husky rumble of a healthy domestic
the emphysemic labor of a degenerated sedan
with a dead cylinder, missing loudly
as it accelerates down the main drag
Sit at a street window and listen
to the systole and diastole of traffic's pulse
regulated with changing lights and
the unheard clicks of unobtrusive grey boxes
Accelerating and braking all day long,
rubber tired, gas powered, water cooled
well-upholstered, shock absorbing thermostaticly
controlled steel envelopes with chromed
adornments ferry the vulnerable cells to and fro
carry them here and there on strange
fleshly errands ... breathing and seeing
creatures of skin -- soft eyes, rouged cheeks
and businessmen's hats and neolite heels
inspire pity in mechanical hearts
--- they turn off with the ignition key
and do not notice when the officer fits
a parking ticket under one eyelash
They sit outside in the rain as people
sweet to each other nestle up in restaurants
and fill up on sandwiches and cold drinks
They sleep under the hood while high heels
wander through the mall and from store to
store over the sidewalk by the dripping trees
in their reserved spaces
Their batteries run down helplessly while
their lights stare blankly at a wall, and
when their owner comes back they just won't
start.

Internet Addiction, by Charles Carreon



Trust old Bak to steer you right,
I've burned the oil into the night
To find the scrap of evidence
To prove what should be obvious
That everyone is quite obsessed,
In a clinical sense
And needs to go to detox
In a computer-free space.
The statistics are in,
Your brain is burning dim,
And hitting that space bar
Isn't going to take you very far,
And posting just one more reply
Just isn't going to get you by.
The sun is calling,
But you don't hear it.
Your son wants to play ball,
But you won't go near it.
Just admit it,
You've got to quit it,
God forbid
Your mother should see you like this.
Just look at this place,
The beds unmade,
There's dust on the table
And there isn't a maid,
So look that face in the mirror,
And don't turn away,
It's the face of addiction
Every day.
People are polite
Too polite to say what they think
That your mind's on the blink
If you were clicking for dollars they'd all approve,
But you were just following the spiritual groove
And in all that time
You left but one impression
On the seat
Of your swivel chair.

In the Womb of Stone, by Charles Carreon



When the sacramental gong
strikes,
emptiness ...

Look!
Stranger over the horizon,
standing lone by elbow rock --
Comes to make an offering
at the cave.

Dark now,
in the cave,
hidden within the thighs
of the mountains.

A thousand rainbows,
flooding all horizons,
Angels sending and descending,
All waters pure as crystal,
All skies ineffably bright.