UNUSUAL THEMES OF THE BOLD & OLD AMERICAN WEST

BY OUR SURREALIST WRITER and REGULAR CONTRIBUTOR ERIC LASTICK

Renegade outlaws sand-spurs of the Comanche trails…

THE OUTLAW RUN)

Old gun sling quarrel…Mr. Briggs of big at Bitter Creek. Perceives and executes, as old as it is new. Proves and their prices of nowadays praises…and of old dusty-bred oratory on bullet bands. Holsters leather brands  of Western Ward sons. Western hoofs, grooves. Courageous, you might say…though bitter the swallow of all who live long enough, to banjo & wisdom. Hearts replenish only if you will, yet where most won’t. Sings of sad, though stars seem in perfect alines, in linage of crimes, once again of our living, our breathing!

SPECTACLE: Now a gunfighter of four…or as one feel it. And gives you a boost to the next mapped out miracle moment. But it ain’t real. No, not at all; as the Dalton gang rises of the forward Tomb buzz. Look-like wings in circles. Circle may the fool. Roundups and saddle tight you–flight, all through the rain drenched and dark of night. Calls, hums and whispers—though never so clear, here at Bitter Creek. Swallows in strikes of sounds…and the willows of the perturbed.Morning may long be magic with a horse drawn steal. An open and shut range, until the next Marshall come-a-looking. Not to judge, but to see that the law lingers…and it trust much further than, the fear of a common scared and law abiding townsman. His lady close at his side. 

Dalton bullet vest sunny sweet in ones own mind’s one. Earlobes in the heat of the Comanche oversees—like waves of courses so cruel. Hollow canyon take us back to where simpler times…though the bitter of wind and rain follows a poor choice in six gun folly, careless shots to sacred still will quarters. Hears and listens of ancestors, high native sky!

(LONG RIDERS…OUTLAW REND)

Crazy spurs…and dust bend whiskeys…all black hatted. Terse eyed and know-ed—-too a last ”rob of a caboose.” Meet me at the pass of the notorious Younger James…train turnovers and notoriety, 1863. Hope-hold country fair—see’s side of roughed rove Missouri . Bold as it is cold travels. War torn Rebel’s in Grey coat. Tooth pull monkey wrench—go the bushwhack…and truth be known of a lieutenant H. B. Noggin’s, flag and binocular—these gun slinging savages on a hooping hell-firefight’s to his authentic gang…so– take heed, fine people. Better to man-up an iron horse. Draw a curtain past this hardened and crude large lasso of terror, that be known and reiterates”, say it well, the common’s man. Long and never short winded after a banker’s nightmare on the steals! Angry and dry stagecoach occupants are left with just the mere shirts upon their backs. Woman of loose leggings–as the James gang styles lady eyed— too the next town, with sparkles and new wealth deepening pockets.

” Will me a new day, away from the hoof-prints of this rough gang of thieves and wretches– and to that which survives…and those who lay dead. Yet not until the gun and bullet frame of Robert Ford strikes the back of Jessie James. 1870’s to never be the same…of a mixed message of the lore of the old west. Paint a fine print of this Missouri take. The stagecoach…and the bank, the trains last stop be of a burial 1876. A last stop to the outlaw line. The tripped and reads of the townsfolk…and eye of the outlaws museum. The bite down

of dust…spurs rust, and one more horse singles the coded soured dime which it stands.

(SAND MOCCASIN THE COMANCHE TRAILS)

Comanche stay the wolf. Red rider, red wolf…bare of extinction. Kiowa too, in vision quest–storied of Chief -ton ”Big Bow” Coy a wolf, mesh the Grey. Kicking bird chirps and distinctions of yellow wolf. Gold symbol to a renewed day. Wolf-en pal …mutual stretch at the curve trail. Tall the sky…strands of green, the morning dew. Slick the hillside. Light’s glare and raises of burnt orange mix with fog, held by last night’s thunderous electric branched mountain tie. Wolf and i, dodge the bolts of lightening. Wind bend air rush of the hour to dawn. Tangle web catch those frozen from fear. Owl centered…seeing the mood of late day. Wolf seek the shelter of the pack. Lone though, my mutual pal, say the Comanche. Surge, bite and claw—all through adversity of dense forests. Duel howls of the moon. Soon, a retrograde back to Indian river. A TRAIL, until home…as within no time a place for those speakers. Their calls to the Plains. Spirit reign…land us at Colorado station. A single train sit among this space. This place of the sights and it’s longest miles…pile of buffalo hides. Longhorn carcass, yet past this, medicine bags and riches of a simple stop in this rapture. Beautiful night to stop and take-in, this summer’s wind. Comanche read’s of signs, the message of this grand old west; as if our own front doorsteps! In this wild, walk forth Comanche, stay the wolf. Wolf and red man pass the pain and hardship of this great land—taken by the currents…it’s flows of Anglo gold. Riches for one. Wolf savage–yet bold, too save the very next red road. These trails and this path of mutual savior. Struggle set above this drink…and these waters…these steals. Press and forgotten on the reserves which are our homes. Tempered drive—too the path. A place called peace. Gains of freedoms, meet at Red road. Join star guides…souls who pass among the envelopes of hope. Comanche stay the wolf, my mutual pal. I call you friend—-with guide of the wolf, tomorrow we will surely separate to find our own, though this journey is to really see, and structure what needs doing. The unity of the wolf…and the red man—stretches of blessings. Memorials to all those whom have fallen. Future peace and unifying, this new day—-all along the Comanche trails.