THE TURN OF THE STONE THROUGH THE SEASON’S OF 1968
( WINTER OF 1968)
Another startling piece by our surrealist author ERIC LASTICK
REVEREND MARTIN LUTHER KING: In this icy dicey world in which we all lived in the vested canopy covers that held our dreams…too the unexpected early frost builds over– like walls closing in. Not what one bargained for—as the heated plains of body and mind…and an anatomy layers—as all time seemed to slow of the rip and current outcomes falling short…and near a flat line—with a driven sort of wind shift—and as of night, you wheel in the toss and turns. Pillow like a sunken ship to awake the mappings of anticipation. Nervousness of thoughts tick round the clock. A mystery to unfold—as slow goes the minute hand in bind. The pendulum hammer pounds the sun right out of you! Pace you wait for an answer; although it just won’t come. Late you wait in anger. Soft in nature come the streams…the rains continue. The lies and promises of so-called allies in the battles of monies. And of no shame, just greed. Posture tall to the heavens to bring charitable of heart that is not enough; as you wale a call. Then the echoes of the city as it sleeps. The icy dicey midnight to morning sung in it’s silence. If one could just hear humanities of the reigns, willing. New world take and take away the fast hard driven snows. Lessen seem all that you are in the twisted world of such a story and acclaim; although never bankrupt you will. Your mind made. Moving little hills to mountains…as one sits and ponders of tomorrow. And as for one, it may not be, but the foresight rest upon layouts of hope—and of that dream. The day will come…Reverend King.
( SPRING OF 1968)
DRAFT MORNING: Memoirs of yester-patterns…so vivid…so real. The battle of good and evil is not so clear-cut…a black and white issue. A real horror not only of the senses—but in the heart of what is right…what is wrong— with our own abilities to gut out the anatomy of all the human injustices. The napalm of living a perpetual burn! Heartache a soul of a nation. Draft morning, as a wake up…see what it is and what i can’t believe has come to lite—like an exit way to the falsehood of everything human beings could reason. The industrial causeways…underground bounds in of the free-ways of wealth. Chairman where by a system so bleak and willing in the evils and take down of lives for profit and power gain. Draft morning speak to me in so many avenues…a bandana and blood rag jungle glow…Ambush visions in bad dreams stem like a leech and letch of real. Chopper on the lap of my bridges…as i walk this path in horror and all of it’s pain.
(SUMMER OF 1968)
STRATS THE STARTS OF NINETEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY EIGHT…Drive me home…in a station wagon…love seat themed. Stagger Lee static the (am) radio. Mono are the interiors of our own little worlds. Big pictures sent and scent the evenings, the Cronkite reliable…as everybody’s favorite uncle—while he bring us all our first television war in bright living color– out of Southeast Asia. The agony of our soul. Heartbreak of family and friends. The rich culture and the brotherhood of man, in the still-wills of civil unrest. The horrors of inequality and divide brought us to the tables…yet peace backfired too the blasts od attrition. The bombider of Asian skies. Strats the starts, the finishes of the 1960’s. High low these astrological signs of the times.
CHICAGO DEMOCRATIC CONVENTION…Wisdom’s lost and slipped out the kicks of the doors. Mayor Daley’s Ol’ billy-club clout in a blue wave—brought the meanness of ”the heat” The hip turn to Yippee struggles. Endless chaotic blends that darken nite. ..as a black panther’s fist is raised. Then another and one more. Bobby Seals tossed the chill pill…as the old line politic point your finger food for the newspapers smears.New journalism linguistics of ”the flower child” Old school diminishes,as if in a flash! A vodka martini…a sugar cube like blue heaven—trip over this Garden Party. A courier sendee sense of new thought configured. Dylan’s so much younger now. UP UP & stay of these higher sends of peace and love. None violence to telling that to the judge…and the highers of the Chicago 7’s. Fools gains, fools riches, fools gold turned into fools splits and grimes. Since the Adam’s, the Eves…the hunchback call from the Belfry, in bent pains; Inna godda divida baby…the bra less…the hot-pant glows. Smooths of mescaline swallows. Mini skirted and Maxi Van—fill these times— too a heave-ho’ of the ways and placements of a new and more open way of freedom; as every ordinary Penn Wynn ventured in a parchment non-surrender to all the excesses. The glee’s of quenching thirsts in the moment. Television Undress the Bar-do, the Ursula for the love of it. Sheep sanctuary for us all off too sleep! The complexities of our wars…economic tows…debts and cool aid brand ledgers…fat cat drops and lavish yachts—while sugar cubes indulge a whole generation wide. Yet we are not stupid. Yes, the ones that lived it…and now own it. The substance. The sub-stance in the listens of our inner knows; all our outer masters lavish in colors. Yet our crashes and come-downs all to today…as this entire culture liken of brighter loves…futures in a Utopia has been left dissipated in the real-feel new world. Scrapple game uses, not of a word, but a ploy;as all through the latter sixties into the early stages of the 1970’s drawn down to a simple Missy shorty pants too the next band to rock. Aviate across Laurel Canyon. Mismatch and set us all up to the sophisticate, they wait; The Spy Dome!
(THE FALL OF 1968)
SOLDIERS DREAM RETURN: A warm and delightful way back home of dreams and letters…soldier see through the anguish past the long visor tightly woven straws, the Okanowin of heart-ed goodbyes…lines in what are rice. Heaven holds seem so distant—of sailor’s down river with tranister radio…grass graze wishful home. Gary Puckett and The Union Gap…my girl back home. Indian lake a ‘Cow-sill charm of early fall. LA stretches the far regions of mind. This soldier sees the brass builds of Herb: ”This guy’s in love with her” Noble be of the horse-back barn… and it’s ranch sticks and stitches. Sleeps and dreams. Jimi Hendrix hadn’t ran past the fires…but stayed in the strengths of knowing the Monterrey wisdom’s. Yet not of show, but of truth. Heaven sent a soldier…a real one of peace. Home shores of America. Loved you then…and even more now.