BEATNIK FORERUNNERS OF OLD REACHES TO THEIR NEW BOHEMIAN WRITTEN LIFE STORIES
ANOTHER STUNNER FROM OUR GREAT SURREALIST ERIC LASTICK
On the road following the fray of the four cornered rooms…set momentary of the bohemian, old as like new, to the wake of ”the bearded”, and the curly haired piano poets; Eucalyptus humps and sails by Wednesday…a tempered garden grow—with it’s tills to the winter. Bohemian blossom the sun’s reads and muses of the writers whom so gathered—-as purple turn to red-drop of an overload and spill the mountainous of weed and rags, too endless falls in the courage of their wind driven minds; where less equal more, in the cooking yards and stews of ”the thinkers” And of the brews of madness and aspirations—-long after their forerunners of jazz and poetic contacts. Set to be free, as if a ‘buzz’ long of a guild & will, to breathe just one long day, as so it seems.
New Bohemian learn-ed of those old hobbles along the roadsides. Memoirs of Jack Kerouac…and his writes in bus loads. Saddened eyes paying by the quarters…seated are the busmen holiday—lessened be of the charms. Envy are the riches. Written are the actions of ideas—-and it’s builds, on the rolls and chapters. On the road; Kerouac side-kick, Dean Moriarty…char-like cigar smoke, state to passing state’s line; open’s up the side pane window…and opens up to one last surge…and it’s fills to the golden gate and bay city visions. A dear one, Carolyn…Dean’s lost ties…his rides of ”the magic bus”. Merry Pranksters & Ken Kessy wave through smiles of smudged windows and smoke.
(TRAVEL LOG #1) BEAT RIDES ON TRACKS AND SLIDE-SHOWS…VISIONS & CLIMBS AT SUBTERRANEANAN REMO” NEW YORK CITY…
STREET SIGNED BEAT CLUB…BOHEMIAN TENDER: Corner juke box of mind’s heart rends…coffee house carry her hat…Her look on display. Walk in, drop in the safe zones to your seat of jazz sounds…poetry and writes of itself. Conversations with neighboring peers. Desolation footsteps and cigarette butts; and therefore an ash of where the ragged tend to lean towards the grays of the clouds…sad stories to employ, although gifted—and right inside ‘house’. The loud hip grove of music…all you share, in the eve-struck mentions; a cup and saucer rally of rough ground of oratory readers club. Jolly-like of the 20th century, as she gallops and speaks at center stage. Reads of her words which become so extraordinary…and so blue. A 7th starlet hat of mind and soul. As a spectator, she indelibly could take you there. So close and so very real are her words. One’s silences in meaning, as if a ventriloquist of what is real or imaginary. Hold & meld her words…her nature so clam and stated—-too the very next gifted go …a place to surely strive for.
(TRAVEL LOG #2) GINSBERG HOWLS ON THIS RIDE—ON ROUTE OF THE NEVADA’S ROAD RAGE TO ”THE CAFE MEDITERRANEAN SUM…
Relentless loan…set the driving wheel. The vacant highway, in deep, deep, thought. Cleanse the soul…the poetics in the movement of the trail. Both happy and sad. The yin and yang of all our double sided existences. Moody drawn, the dusty endless quandary of all life’s ups and downs. Hardship bends as it winds, until the right applause in the conquerors of the road ahead. (IN REFLECTION) Olden days of way back when: Old pickups…Ferris wheel adventures for our young. True justices of an auspicious roadside fantasy.The revolving wheel of youth…sideways down, the drive curve—along it’s lot. The pony and the prizes. The love of days…the venture for how little he, the child knows, yet is about to see—and to live that day in the experience, and the learn-ed truth of all great explorations…one by one in the sun. The glow of youth. Set of mind. Exploratory in this day—and allow the inner child to expand…and not just of dream, but to live.
(TRAVEL LOG #3) SIDE TRIPS ON THE ROAD OF ONE’S MIND’S EYE…AND CALL OF LIFE’S CHAGRIN. A MIDWEST GAMBLER BEFORE THE CALIFORNIA SUN…
INDIAN SUMMER: Muse the red flash off the piers. The reflection of the Ferris wheel, like a green outlined symbol of orange water current…ordering the night. Winds raised like sail cats. Harley s and truckers parked like stacks of toughs at the local ‘drink’ . Alley cat run the back climb to the fire escape…hidden chambers of the very hides of vagabonds. Cool caper magazines at a Jimmy Breslin newsstand daily. Brush up against the pinball winners. A cotton candy feeds your soul. The vanilla fudges of summer’s end’s. Memoirs in motion…& so clear of thought, yet a running wave, as you take the last dance of summer. INDIAN SUMMER: Close of the night at daybreak. Cast you call on the surf of dreams. The pipeline a pipe-dream of sorts. The amusements are your go, yet only of thought, not action; for you have spent your last dime. Even the crackerjack prize has lost it’s flair. Yet you run…in one last blackjack—-tossed over the tables on borrowed time! See a winner—at least the drive on the other side of midnight; and see yourself,as the spectical of a thousand eyes. Then, a little more drink. A little more ride—too summer’s turn to fall. Although it’s pushing near 80. Time to plunge forwards—too realities front and center doors. The splendor and colors of summer finds a new autumn to fall. Make it a good one.
(TRAVEL LOG #4) ON THE ROAD –FURTHERS AT ”THE ATCHAFALAYA BASIN” WEST LOUISIANA. LIFE LESSON OF THE NEW BOHEMIAN…
At the break of morning…artist’s dye casts and glidden fill of remembrances. Yesterday’s hitting stride. Artful sew, Merchant’s gulf’s too go…and of it’s steadies; it’s marines of the current fixtures, paddle familiar sights. Land rich scenes—and of the swampy soils—with contrasts of even ended on the sly…and of quickened gray sand of blending creatures—while heaven go and bend to the Creole RIVER DAUGHTER. Seems, deems of all those yesterdays. Old corner diner of where you’ve come. Coffee and lit cigarette. Old fashioned you find. Creole mentions…age lines and bricked hearth—-plum perfect, a behest-ed mantelpiece. Lucky sums of senorita figurines. Old stored freezer box mixes of restauranteur young, waiting on tables…scrubs of dishes clean. Crows feet and crayfish an eyeful meet. Hombres the table side—pasted tend fisheries. Cages empty murky oil setting out of craw fish memories. Nose in the steams; as these are the faces, places…and homes on the lean. Just one more cigarette as you run. Take with a slow brake at signals end. Fisherman nod to old merchant seaman. Lost of the lend. Old gulf coast behest-ed—and circumvent it’s lasted and vested—too one more dose of those oiled streams…Mississippi riverboats…RIVER DAUGHTER—-clear water scenes. Distance’s in the wake of this clearing house of today.
(TRAVEL LOG #5) THE FINAL DESTINATION. BEATNIK’S CAR’S SIGNAL OF A FRONT PARKING SIZE, AT ”THE VESUVIO CAFE” MEMOIRS OF ”KETTLE OF FISH” THE BLACK AND BLUES…
AT THE ‘NOT’ SO SQUARE PEG TABLE, IN A ROUNDED HOLE…
(POETS SOCIETY)
Luminary beat’ knocking—on doors. Downright like…and never easy. Pick me up the writes and causes of the night. Stealth fact journal…and book underneath it’s table of palms—-reads of sweat and beat to the rhythms. The bongo bash…sit and set with mind.. Many on the deep think. Few really see all which is around—but they are all here.’ I just do-not know if i am yet?” Says the young poet, to himself. Let me take a read. Feel to it, the poem. The oratory write–off piano. Tea party of fine brand rocker. Elemental you will. Feel as if two miles off a cliff—yet 2 ft to the rum fill bottle floor; up and then back out. Not by suggestion. Not by anyone really looking…listening. Everyone to busy writing away. “Yet i just cannot reach that table!” Again,says the young poet… And with good reason. So find me the sum of all parts…and of actors, critics, to fit the know how, the wit…Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso and Mc clure—-sending the next round…a cheerful bottle, and one last ask: ”Where is William Burroughs?” At airlift table —reading your writes!