PAT GARRETT & BILLY THE KID (KNOCKING ON HEAVEN’S DOOR)
(A BILLY THE KID PERSPECTIVE)
Another grand opus by the quite brilliant Eric Lastick
Pat Garrett Texas cowpoke, high call it home.Home wherever the cowboy in him. Tilt barrels of frozen memories—–all through the grimes of days. Dust-belts and passing bull rings. Army-up against the beast. The new west…southern draw remains. Home and yonder clear the still waters of yesterday’s dreams. Lost in the saddles like ancient times. Row boats and measures…the Lewis and Clark northern path, unlike mine. The cowboy mend… steady short climb. Discovery short-band sweet—and of the lone home and horse sent to me, as a gift from a friend, now foe, Billy the Kid!
(A SALOON STYLE PIANO PLAYS)
The city dwell and making a man out of a stone fixture. Better times lay out the range. Angus and black tobacco stain oak bent corners of round horseshoe in one. Those southern draw’s need make way–past this city. New Mexico’s fresh out of gun-belt, cowpoke, high call, be it of home. A Marshall’s extend stay.
Billy Bony…a gunslinger life. A timetable unlike the rest of us. The gated opens to the range of gunfire. Halts of every door. Stable hands draws of eyes…hears of the day—blue barrel rumbles. Nighttime crossbow sleeps with one eye open. The basis for heaven’s callings, as Dylan established so eloquently—too the knock knock knocking…The prose of his own guitar. No fiddler on this day, this hour. Gunman cannot hide. The time table shows. Pat Garrett out of rides. Billy the Kid in one last draw of this hour of the gun. Dylan counts thee assures…the measures of the doors. Heaven in song.
BLOOD ON THE TRACKS
Those blood reined tracks…must is the reign and saddle. Most are the plans you’ll spread. Riders badged and heaven star pasted push-back winds. How many revolves of the doors. Must stay focus. Centered and path. Four by four are the steadies in song. Vocals stay-ed smooth…come and go to next-ed verse. Seamless and bodied to mandolin seated whole sequenced and rye. The company one keep…obeys only in honest ways through the open air that guides… Leaves behind the empties of gust and cruel…keep the beauty of stain glass and presumes of iron-on dreams. Pipes and homestead more than child-like takes and images. The answers seem to flow in partnership, as if they’ve always been there. The unity heart feed-stock…the horse you’ll run. No needs more than ten. Commanded tights in moral standbys—all the way to the sings of the bridge. Fall the draws and the empties and canned in faces, not what this is about. Rows and rows of followers—wishing wells lost their pennies, oft track…cash their final coin. Margins bargain left next door. The band, up and played on. The right fit is “the whole” What gets it done…pasted those bloody tracks.
JOHN WESLEY HARDING
(THE NEXT FORCE DRIVEN TRAIL)
John Wesley Harding looked out the shack and it’s holds of those old days. Decisions with less ‘sun up’ waking hours until realized of the sleep. Wind drawn to nap-sack …flow the ways. The pen or pencil, a kind of artist pad of words and wisest, as a tree or brush run of the clear sighted day. Mom- esk Robin Red above the branch lines… as cinnamon lunches to fledgling, close distances…the clear sighted Mary, Me–Mom…as June Wesley, tall stick in hand–clear the smokes of old campfire…smoky ridges need no home. The avenue is a trail to the best won stories of one’s soul searches. Brandy is a virtue to the flights of birds that stalk and prey. NEW DAY
Harding on his way further North, fights the good fight…sees what is much clearer now. Spring visit a little while…Harding too. The buds and wished of springs…water levers fill in the calm cool drink of day…clearer now, though older. Solar be of a sun…feeling never so young.
SERIES OF DREAMS
(TENDING ACES. THESE SERIES OF DREAMS)
The poet delves in sequenced paired halves…images as if tossed and slowed—right back at the steady eyes…brings and basket-ed as three. The turn of the hands and in halves of the clock…it’s hour and seconds united. Clauses and energy dusts o’ mighty in partnered dreams. The poet knows, as if life is but a dream. Gently cadences—sees of all our frailties in rows. Paddle down stream…the fine feathers of all the animals knowing so well. Feed their young…honor and prides of Lions. C.S. Elliott brought his son. Sun rises all of the same. Sets of Jobs and riches. Count our blessings…give thanks of the little things that which bring us real joy. Family, friends…few if be of the wiser. Family on the pick-ed blend of good and bad…may all be brought back to happy sides…cures; even of no longer in good graces. This series of dreams has a bed and kind of food for thought bellyful for breakfast. And when we wake up, we are fit and rightly meant to see our actual home of homes…Just a precise and little bit before the last myriad of fly-full years. Screen Jam should have bought a camera…though may indeed just ride the clouded puffs of carpet. Magic and pearls. Tending aces, these series of dreams. Dylan song signatures…interprets in strides of three.
THE TEMPEST
(IN-SIGHTED LONG-ED DAYS)
The spade to earth, every cornered edge, every new beginning. Then the muddle, less the will. The ware-withal …a certain kind of sense—go tempered the bloodstream. Iron’s still knock-knee hots for a little more certain endeavored reason. Cause. Living callus days into years. The weathered bright star you are. The frightened pace of ”back and forth”…days grow short in the ending of one’s ‘dears and dared, as in life’ Busy me in the branched frost glisten of a mature mind. Find humor and mellow along the slow walk path finding home once more. The canals whom you once came charging in; now are a backdrop memory old as one is young. The forfeit is optional in withering aged. Tall cropped hair out of monkey business of only youth fit dreams, though so old. So busy with just that. A few cent penny stockings buy me an old green stamp, i only used to know. But it’s alright, I’m only seeming. The dig is worth the born driven plot in grounds. Beautiful sky of orange leaf angling in corner eye. Lay spun a beautiful place. Rest me a lot, I’ll need it—for those dreams of gardens…riches. Now i have um all. Raise like a sunlamp…phased once more.