Eric Lastick is a strange man. He looks lived in, like an old rooming house knocked out and loaded from the inside.
He’s spent his life inside this badly-built walk-on-stilts high-rise of rooms called things like Hope, Aspiration, Dream…
… and still, today, he stares from his rain-melting ancient windows into glistening streets and memories.
Eric Lastick was born in Zurich but never became a gnome… instead he went looking for a place to stay in Pennsylvania, a city built on handmade pretzels, whoopie pies and cheesesteaks
Personally, I’ve never been to Pennsylvania. And doubt I ever will, I have more of a New York state of mind, an Elvis poster across the grey-ness of the days, Minnesota moan and an Iron Range resolve.
But Eric is living in Pennsylvania in his rooming-house mind.
And he is writing in there all the time.
It’s as if there comes a knock at the door, the rent man and Eric’s jailer are standing in the rain. an old railway sign in their hand.
Eric drops a poem into a cup…
Here Eric Lastick writes three short pieces on Dylan, analysing the ways of life that made little Bob Zimmerman what he is today.
Thank you for sharing Eric.
A NOD & A WINK OVER TO MR. BOB DYLAN…by a rather natty and half-off his nut old folksier—who falls and trips—-square off his observatory; and oddly in his presumes—picks the exact
Righten tilt go wrong—the harmonica…southern Louisiana marching & bourbon strung guitar; yet in a flagrant style cool…and party night out, like a Zoot suit trombone Charlie…rye and bated a halfcocked and drunkard path, in natty fedora whims…whom falls and trips over a primitive place of the biblical reems of casting out the sinner…and the those of the stone throwers; as Dylan lays down the tracks of the stoned…Rock ‘n’ roll dashers old folk scene lovers. All in the ambush and its ambushers—go all wobbly and get high—and dance at will too the oncoming stones. Watching as they all come in! The smoke and bourbon air is as if a bouncing effect to the nature of a higher star. A higher calling…and just roll with it, say the offenders. The procurers as everyone must get stoned.
NATTY DAY, NUTTY SMILE sits the observer…and overseer wingspan sky. He squawks and squall too —6 there envied a larger-than-life traditional folk festival …grouped in hundreds… thousands more to come. Observer to the Dylan second set—straight out of intermission came ‘’an electric wave!’’ New discovers reach of festers knee deep in an electric shock trove, as old folky wet down and waterlog. Mud on your shoe. Holes in one’s souls! What one does know is out forefather styled Pete Seager sheath a pun an unplug. Harsh head rhythm’s …ringing 0f his own pained brain—like a fire on a broom stick! Nightmare winds of a sudden backdraft, oft the walls and barriers of the antithesis of all music collides in the aftershock of an entire folk movement—while seeing and abruptly hearing their very own breve folk hero turn and sway as the troubadour of this new-fangled, run straight off the ridge in a circus and carnival ride too rock ‘n ‘roll. Dylan’s whimsical organ player equipped with his dancing keys of flighty flaps … and a strange on the rise strolls of presumed electric mayhem. Yet somehow Dylan pulled it off. There really was a fine beauty too it!
‘’FOR THOSE WITHOUT SIN CAST THE FIRST STONE’’ Dylan of seems on that day as if the taking of the turns of ‘’a wrath folk grape’’ A faze of the tunnel winds. Twists of the weathervane—right too a sour’s end in one powerful and dazzling rock session of sorts! There can be know turning back of this ‘’lightening in the bottle ‘Just all the further responds of one’s desires for all the world too see…with a headfirst slide —-right into the times of the swinging 60’s…which melds ‘everyone must get stoned’’ A natty and half off his s nut observer of ‘’the rainy-day lady’’ take a ticket…have she tag #1235.
#bobdylan #livd
