‘POUR ME ANOTHER TASTE OF HEAVEN AS HIGHWAY 61 ROAMS IN BROKEN DREAMS’
A stunning new – heart-felt – piece from Society writer Eric Lastick …
BOB DYLAN’S PAINTED ROAMS & GATHERED COURSE AT HIGHWAY 61
DREAMLIKE SCENES & VISIONS—-TOO THE PAINTED ROAMS OF THE SIXTY ONES…
Digs highway signs…zags and corner stores of old. Exit a heart of a painter—too the road top moods…sullen moon’s riches in which few can really see. Less to own, yet it’s keys rise with the stars on what is left to gather these roams of the highway 61’s…painted the starts, struggles of life—and of love. Broken dreams determine the rolls of step on stones. Motorcycle take me home. Lessons learned to each new crisis. Girl on a picnic, yet this year alone. Office space for lease off a roll down cliff…a business goes the same. And still, no one buying. Nobody care to know. Revenues of broken dreams. Unfixed is the mix and makeup of “Sweet Jane”
A car fixed, frozen on the rail road tie. Endless long distances ahead…as the 61’s abandoned—and almost closed. Wise helper, the old lady crow from the past. This motorcycle highway of where the 61 used to live and prosper, now just of old dreams. Wishes start at every freight car bustle…conductor override and send all the wishes of old. Again, we are on our own. Feel it, the rollings of railing to the heaviest of stones. Jump-in Jack Elliot just bought the new clock…sold his stopwatch…smart watch, left too the curb. The wise guy, the bum…and their outlaw ways got them to where they land; right here at the demolition…ended of ave. Toad on the road disclosedsed of all highway 61’s’. ”Just a museum piece for all fair weather creatures once upon a time.” A motorcycle rider of the road. The joy. The peel, the wonder. Time now to pack for autumn.”Road closed”. Next tour is a milestone run…and big one! Memories and wide stretched, for only ‘mind’s eyed sees. The rest Dylan tells in song.
(BACK IN TIMES OF THE HIGHWAY)
POUR ME ANOTHER LITTLE TASTES OF HEAVEN…killing track-rubber on this road ride…lasting in the inspirited…whale ‘n and taking down the natural’s of the 61’. Smooths with sail-cats mementos…bye and bye. Albert, the iceman, pull over his flatbed heavy. Frozen doors…mile a minute skid. How proper their distances. Coffee little’s…a cafe stay. Mr. Collins have it, a rip roaring guitar in 3 chord blues…ice machines…scenes from the 61’s of hand picking strum line. Mike Bloomfield hammers like ghost goblins royal spirit rolls! Richard Emanuel loves the keys and harmonies. Road miles and corner tap room charms. ”Wish i had a mountain in hand lyrics from those days” say the artist. Those people…their travels. Memories bundle in one. Now a test, as too—– he who ride the highway’s smooths of heaven’s door. Highway 61.
PIT STOP AND FAITH PLACE TO TRAVEL. see you at the hole in the wall.
Bull ride lead me home. Nightingale on holiday. Open bar. Tequila jumbo…slow Gin fizz. Artifacts on wall…all front and centered. Clear cut caviar, never how it seems! Onion dip, free fall sandwiches, with art deco tables. Rap them up and take home. Sway left to center right, good night—-too a drunken stupefied fall! bow to the Captain’s nest…obided troubadours…young and old—-wrestling a poet’s dream; and maybe someday get there. Iron clad notions of the best bottled bread. Wish I’d been back England’s ways away when Sandy Denny opened with million dollar bash! Signs and times, a hundred mimes over. Lend me a call, my favorite dish. Catch and release every starfish who plays bass lines with King fish on call. I gotta say that this layout, maps and blends of a real hoot! Another lime in that Tex Mex blend, old boy…and have another Irish twists and mists—too play off the ambiance like a Irish spring day ”.I’ll be back at 7.” Hold that drink with the other , quite seven. Big tips and generous folks of my kind.
FURTHER ON THE HIGHWAY 61
(DYLAN AND VAN GOGH) TO THE TOUCHES OF EVERY BRUSHSTROKES…
Images weigh of route 61. Rev and Gogh the landscape, these tumbles…and vested colors of their lore. A take to the highway of best known open minds, Sometimes UN-charters—too often dazzle, yet much to close to the shades of home. But still, the rhymes on perfect verse and time. Heart vessels …& all of the pains of it’s local beats—right to the rhythms to amaze. Banded riches…fears of an old bump—yet never let the eyes of an artist ever really fail. Trial change endeavors be their calls…their answers to it all; stretching…burgeoning where no one knows. Insides and sounds of the mystics. Mercurial end dose cures, if only for a few moments. Brush me… and hit me up with grayness. In greens, a dose of cure without envy. I will wish you both a scene of freedom…as ”the Egg-man” delivered with seamless UN-cracked—right into the ice box, which only the mind’s eye sees. Justifies.
(THAT EVIL HIGHWAY)
IN ALL THE IRONS OF GOD AND WHAT IS KNOWN OF OUR EVIL…a combination of mind and spirit of a two sided wind drive, finding center course, with nothing so obvious as night clawed vultures…terrors and screams past the broken street lamps. Never ending corridors backed up by magic. Halloween samples of angel and devil…there and suddenly gone—right off the front lawn! Cat of creature, the night is long. HEAVEN scent through mischief …and of light insinuating themes; as the church bells ring the love of the hour. New born fawn…opening eyes of truth. Turntables and black limousines. Carousels of the East river drives—right out of the foggy midnight turn. Folly free me past this conundrum…handcuffed and loaded on a large mushroom stay. A bed-knob irony approach of what could and couldn’t . Then a light of your smoke…and hammer wind out the lights. Free ghost take restless…and no supports…as no one sees, yet hears them. Open sesame stable. One needs a warm comfortable chair to ponder in. The black, the white of things to come. A hideaway cot and liquor cabinet…junket places of deuce roll. Then come the horses…and all owners on quest. An answer of loaded details. Both good and bad.
THE DEMOLITION FINAL RUN AT HIGHWAY 61 (Like a rolling stone)
Rugged are the roads, the hard places of broken bits…cornered gravely off the highway of ragged dwellers. Soup can, dust weather bowl over an open fire. Cigarette holders hides in the sands—-drift and sink away their own smiles. Many highway run. Born to travel. Wares of it’s comes and goes. People and thinking, the fork in the road. What one must take on ”the heavy”. Die there of the unseen smooths ventured. YES, LIFE’S hard roads. Road runner avoids and of all the wily dynamite of a self brought empty soul-search. Crimson moon blend towards a long gone ride. Motorbike drive. Hiccups your blues, as too where ya’ going in this new age angry climate…and this hard road life. Spend bread the gamble without the look about the miles of road. Now middle age creeps like built on food and iron bar weighed crates. Mind, body and spirit.Have too hold…but can you? The road may be long in it’s search for sustainable life.Some peace. The air and airs may tame down through the grass long…the ears bigger. Gravity an ancient long. Earth’s besides itself; although truth and knowledge starts from within. The hard road you have now a resting point. Coasted dreams too reality. Find it at home.