THE PAPER MACHETE & MACRAME… STRING PATTERNS OF THE 1970s

 (At ‘diggers’ ball…a ‘catch-all’ of the latter 1960s… and it’s release’s thru the 70s)

  TEN YEARS AFTER AT WOODSTOCK: 50,000 MILES BENEATH MY BRAIN…

BY ERIC LASTICK

Numerology a decade long…miles of rocky country…rough roads. Peace-nick and drumsticks—off to the Catskill highest of hills. Take towards these terrains. Brains big as the acid trips that dreams become. Yes, 50 thousand beneath. Yes of the tragedy of the 1960’s bigotry and bloated minds. Oblique in war games. Torturous struggles of just staying one step past the draft board. The seas are the limit of to and fro. Choices and wind gone next days—fly like the choppers of Southeast Asia…and of crimes against humanity. In numbers, in multiples…in media. They are figured creatures buried in the story…no matter who it hurts…who it gropes about. The clearing of the smoky air at Woodstock’s Yasger’s stage front…Ten yrs after…A.Lee and company—& to it’s brews,the brain to bequeath of percolating cheers—all across this great night landscape. Magic bus and all of us…dig as diggers 50 thousand miles low. Digs to China and back in our waste fill rag weed highs. The bridge in song. ”I’m going home” Deep run deep water blues. Electric Sas, high like fire! Alvin Lee sweat and sing…the 50 thousands. The play on…play backwards of the mind! World gone as crazy as crazy can be, but we had  each other. We had the night of Ten years. Brains scatter, brains plug in. Turn on…until morning strong. Will do it all again.

(TEMPTATION EYES IN THROUGH THE 70’S)

Temps of the sights of sultry women on a groovy early September skirted trip to the nearest and grooviest Hollywood sideshow and hideaways. Sunshine dream sequence of those sub-string nights. Harrowing roads to follow that dream. All the mischief. Temptation eyes is bigger than on could ever know. Grass rooted the excellence of what majesty awaits at the vinyl record and glass encased private headphones—escapes the hot smoke and sass-a-fras until the next morning…and another Labor day weekend. The wallet bend fine tune love affair of pop hits…Those 1970’s uniquely drawn. Rob Grill, founder of the Midnight confessions…Temptation eyes, a chart buster. Heaven on a barbecue spit across the Los Angeles district…scents and sights of the groovin weighs of that September laborer of lov. So far to the Canyon…so heavy the note and pop rock movement of those days. Pass the Nicholodian Senator McGovern ballroom charms. Anecdotes of a hit and never miss love song. Rooted be all of the love in an era of our vest of times. LA summer sunny vases of flowery long-haired —like fellow profits of love. Decisive drive, up and down to a bass rhythm …drums so endear, as if your right back in the times of our lives.

(GOODBYE YELLOW BRICK ROAD)

Labor Monday’s holiday, never short of small miracles…Styles and piano inflatables to what the Philadelphia Freedoms never dream …as the labor  day appears—big as Reginald’s glasses…The Billy Jean King serves…and the good of our labors—ride of Elton John, Bernie Taupin. Surrealistic flavors coast to coast–along memories—so clear in song…and as if out of all our bedroom windows…sequenced farms…The look-about train tracks..conductor of harmony; the destination of all our youth’s dreams…adult run and find the Yellow Bricks on that path to view and find the goodbyes of that day in time. Although, Elton closes out the theme with a bright and cozy woolen vocal high note…all to sing—thus spectacular fill—this young generation of higher minds, the 70’s…September returns of the labors of growing up abridged with the pushing hills and sliding valleys of all ebb and flow. Great song—all alongside the Yellow Brick Roads, throughout the era…Honey pies and imitating writs watch, chocolate watch band…Smith bros black beards…burly outdoorsy hippie cultivated wisdom’s of where our fathers failed to feel the love. The music in us, so rare…and as alive as earth itself! Groovy chick’s steer my way…as the sign reads: ”SAVE WATER, TAKE A BATH WITH A FRIEND!” Sea rise at Big Sur.

(BLASTED…THE DARK SIDED TRIPS OF THE 70’S HIPPIE POP CULTURE…ALICE COOPER, THE STOOGES…TRULY NOT 101)

 Free spirit go all hellbent…The Motor City 5 leaves a Sinclair card cut in two…so  said the Hippie forge—with drives and sparkle eyes of glitter—along suggests, to the brother and wedge-wooded endeavors…justly—with the peace sign. 2 fingered share all in one pocketed. Lady love…potted bushels of wonder weeds. Hand picked fresh flower power, all of 17. Thus the fears of the black limousines…rage the politician man…Madness on all sides…burn the bridges…the asks and tells of foreign wars. Old Nash and 8 car garage. Dick Nixon back on the hate of Ashbury…German helmets style the road masters of long hairs…Hells Angles …Oakland Coliseum feeds of the white donkeys…the nineteen seventies brigades at a stone fest at Altamont. Remember to add bleach to the factory of wars…wash away human love; as Hippies rumble…and hate on corporate Raiders…golden seal, a lie—off the bridges of Gold Gate…and as so far the radar smooths coast guard glide but wide, the smiles of the allegorical stews…the black and the white. Panthers black, still sprawl along the banners—too late of the Chicago land eight. Leafs and tinges of jeopardy feels…ray up a light to what may help improve…cops are a-looming…stage fright is every Rock-Hampton home clog…thrusts the show of hippie,as one must continue on, so says Jerry Garcia. Lenny Bruce takes the brass band warriors known as the un-bashful Knights of humor…Hippie stay a little while longer, until the clock chimes of where he will hail of one hell of a bend…and soliloquy of a show, as if the 1980’s and Jerry Garcia, seed a few new goings to heaven! The clock is not on anyone’s side when the final hippie drum slows to  a steady stop. Jerry Rubin and uncle Abby Hoffman buy new cars. Drive in the summer sun a little to long. One corporate and the other off his nut! Loss of ideas. Hippie drippy wet weather report gone off it’s axis. Professor Cornell West bakes a cake in hunger of the patrol watch at every door. It’s time to intellectualize all crimes on humanity. Underneath the collar shirt, the teacher of hearts knows—no longer bleeding. Sells to the sounds of the go too Wall Street Rise…as i close my eyes in fear of what’s to come. We all do. Labor day of it’s way. 50 years long.