The boss aka Bruce Springsteen and the E Street band

Bruce Frederick Joseph Springsteen

born at Monmouth Medical Center

in Long Branch, New Jersey,

on September 23, 1949.

 

His nationalities include hodgepodge

of Dutch, Irish, and Italian descent.

 

He grew up Catholic in Freehold, New Jersey.

 

I dedicate the following poem

to aforementioned musician,
whose figurative guitar finger
kept on the throbbing pulse
resoundingly reverberating

across American heartland.

 

this cautious man (bobby jean) born in the u.s.a.

grownin’ up in the badlands of atlantic city

bonded with blood brothers

felt born to run along backstreets

in brilliant disguise that did cover me

frequently blinded by the light

of the full moon

casting silhouettes against darkness

on the edge of town

which lunar shafts pierced candy’s room,

while immersed in book of dreams

describing better days on a Cadillac ranch

where devils & dust - visible dancing in the dark

celebrating like calendar showered 4^th of july

or other glory days in darlington county

even though I ain’t got you.

 

livin’ in the future

mine hungry heart hankered

and felt like I’m on fire

for you, this fire in me craved human touch

desire - roaring into the ole factory fire

because I wanna marry you

because the night populated

with girls in their summer clothes

each dazzling like 57 channels (and nothin’ on)

in imagination of my american skin

descended from when adam raised a cain

before last to die forecasting kingdom of days

now dwelling in celestial mansion on the hill.

 

now rightfully claim status of I’m a rocker/
local hero and I’m goin’ down

meeting across the river

if I should fall behind

on the downbound train as living proof

within light of day magic jungleland

policed by highway patrolman i.e. johnny 99

alias johnny bye bye – held up without a gun

defending this lucky town

established on Matamoras banks

from an incident on 57^th street

thus celebrated

as local hero every independence day

when, with murder incorporated

firing point blank out in the street

that staccato new york city serenade

from no surrender outlaw pete

originally from nebraska.

 

it’s hard to be a saint in the city open all night

within my hometown

once my father’s house, now my city of ruins

where tis moot to ask

does this bus stop at 82^nd street?

 

one step up

into the pink Cadillac

hops the ramrod queen of the supermarket

teasing audio dials sans radio nowhere

a red headed woman

racing in the street toward secret garden

to save my love –

with thee angel rosalita (come out tonight)

offering reason

 

to believe roll of the dice real world

and to prove it all night

from spare parts – shards of roulette wheel

housing souls of the departed

please save my love and stolen car

for sherry darling – that spirit in the night

she’s the one among souls of the departed

no longer stopped by state trooper

precinct based along streets of philadelphia

some crackling like streets of fire

straight time mandate

for those armed to the teeth

along tenth avenue freeze-out.

 

requiem per terry’s song – what love can do

accompanied by e street shuffle

performed in somber tones

rumbling down thunder road

for souls of used cars

two hearts crushed

along this hard land

for: the ghost of tom joad

the last carnival homage

to wild billy’s circus story

the price you pay when you’re alone

working on a dream

now wreck on the highway.

 

we take care of our own from youngstown

when heading of to the promised land

the rising distant mystical eden

where you can look,

(but you’d better not touch)

espying the river of salvation

joining eternally the ties that bind

a tunnel of love

or like the wrestler

pinning opponent tougher than the rest

like laborers working on the highway

chiseled like this hard land!