My Little Rocket-in-the-Pocket Operas of Escape
Heroes get harder to find, and can be action figures
to succeeding generations. Take Bruce
who led his flock across the river
to 52nd Street on a mythical Saturday night.
A rough ride for his fans
when he married into Hollywood
but mistakes got unmade; he found
a Jersey girl with balls.
Then came the headband, the stadium show,
three fluid hours on his feet, sweating
up against the Big Mans chest,
the common man a polestar, Boss for real.
Rumor has it he fined members of his band
for touching his guitar
and if world peace was hanging in the balance,
could not identify a carburetor.
Music took him places the Marines wouldnt go,
that Madame Marie could not predict,
and by way of Tom Joad, to the sinkhole of politics.
The band stayed together, in rock years, forever.
In his mansion, more than anything else,
it was said hed rather slouch in front of the tube
watching Alan Ladd as Shane with the sound on mute,
distractedly strumming an acoustic, sneaking
up on a melody that once lassoed
could be a family home for orphan lines
pulled from his stack of identical
marble-covered composition notebooks.
At Rutgers a professor turned his songs
into a seminar in the Department of Theology.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 43 | Spring 2014