CAPTAIN AMERICA & BILLY THE KID, GO-TWO-RIDERS OF THE EASY RIDER EXPERIENCE

A new rocking piece by our resident writer – ERIC LASTICK

A knot so quick witted, although a path—-right through the staked heart; and leftest flash of the peace sign…American flag on the back leather, with all aboard & towards that of the flower child rise up— with straight forward of the whole…and that of the 1960’s. Chopper Billy & steady cool, Captain America on a biker’s ‘roll on down ”hearthstone thrown” segregated, deep south highways. High stakes…and higher highs—in turn, as the roads become bridges too a commune that fire and burn, 1 reefer down. Billy, the dark run rebel…wishful but opaque at the bottom of the streams…seer of the upside downs, the rides of his drift cloud mind in substance down under. Potted plants and seeds of gentle, though of crazy madness! Men, woman and children of hippie-doom trying to make a crop out of these dusty dry hills.Yet a belief to which every flower child’s inner sanctum that somehow they’ll get the crop in before the bitter fall of draft morning. Captain Peter Fonda…freedom navigator, as he pacifies while explaining to Billy about not being so quick to judge others on the commune stay…Hopper’s bummer trips of not fitting in with the crowd, a common place…and this misplaced to mingle; as Captain America has instant LSD flashes of last years Beatles “Revolver”. Beatles in a bunch of four, sitting by a jet set pool…and float down stream, with premonitions of the Tibetan book of the dead—along with sidekick ‘Billy the kid” and ”Smile” The Beach Boys trials to live up to Rubber Soul! Captain Peter Fonda has his extended trance flashback, where Pet Sounds astounds…as the go-two-riders, rev up to the next town. Light up your smoke of the brash and hot spell of another agonizing New Mexico day. There is no honor among  thieves…as cycle motors must adjust to the abject holds that scrub them…relinquish the ebb and flow of hate and prejudices that keep on rising to the top of these so soiled sad of states. Yet they do not bend or break in their hopes of the red white and blues…and the hash bowl bigger better consciousness as consequences. One can vision a redneck stare 8ft tall in it’s stay of distances…table tops…tobacco smells and promises of that… and of a barrel gunning for—- a long haired of the free! It might be better to reevaluate that space one takes; and of those very freedoms. GO-TWO-RIDERS, escalate in the landscape…and soon fall apart at it’s seams! Thread like the blues of old school guitar Delta players…harmonious web—-too no more freedom in the twilight carriers of one’s stoned circling mind.

BLATANT AN UNEASY RIDER CONCEPTION

Astral ears in the unorthodox motorcycle ride. Much more than just your Space Cadets, ”High as the sky” as now three riders of what it seems…and of the relishes of what freedom brings. No vacancies is the paths by night other than a campfire for a real southern drunk-in lawyer…and two hippies; not yet knowing, and never believing that America insists on leaving them behind! Ending this run with nothing but bad news…broken dreams; and lost destiny travels…as there is never anything easy outta Southern California travel by way of the heart of the deep south in the latter days of the nineteen sixties. Motor sets of Easy riders…pretty mommas at the French Quarters of these unwelcome roads down old Louisiana. D.H. Lawrence is the caper and well read in which this Southern lawyer shares and swears by. The drugs safely in the tank of Captain America’s Harley. The Chopper, Hopper, Peter’s side kick… nourished and approved with all the Benny’s and hot smokes, the ritual signaling of the hippie join. Member’s only, next and by, ”The Club War” of white hate,as a community engulfs in the worst in men. One dead campfire…lights out. The pain of hickory and the death of one lawyer —-off the scales of those who deem of patriotism. Hate of the long haired. Hippies and parades without permits. Cross town magic whips— too a girl’s fancy. Brothel at a mix with Mardi Gra joys until the acid kicked in. Then the fall of one’s boyhood revealed. Girly on the gurney of way too high! Magic pan send me home…and scare me straight, if it ain’t to late. Though it is…as two rifle redneck have a little fun with deaths doorways…and of the never to be expected! Next, the Astral from the sky scene look-in down on the fire trapped engine. A fatal final call. No one listens. But it’s alright ma, I’m only bleeding, in the forever of prejudice and hate.

EASY RIDER SUMMATION

Rough bends…pains; and have bike, will travel—right towards the ugliness from this evil that precludes…all along these dust barren trails. Far, Far, the L.A.  place calling back home. Reigning in the colors of freedoms. Go chopper go! Flag fill the stars and stripes, although ”the confederate” still farms his own seed…thru the Louisiana less of saves of soul suckers on it’s trail…and any ugly guerrilla style hippie outsider to which heaven holds their bewares. Billing done on a long haul motorcycle drive. Southern states…states of mind. The potted Bushman. Camp by the river…drowning sorrows of what could be, but never will.