Chapter 34 A Concerto for Dull Senses

"And the poets down here don't write nothing at all, they just stand back and let it all be."

Bruce Springsteen, Jungleland


The Boss’s Jungleland devises a sweeping tribute to young but tragic love, embraced stylistically in a wandering, epic setting that’s not for the faint of heart. It’s a modern West Side Story adaptation of sorts with a dance of death that takes place in the alleys, beneath the city, deep within the forgotten shadows on the outskirts of the New Jersey Turnpike.

And there on the fringes, just beyond the action, I envision one bearing witness to it all, with a rapid, beating heart and a mournful but imaginative mind, spreading his arms outward, breathing in the eternal inspiration found there, looking toward the heavens with anguished questions that have no answers. Not that he doesn't have the revelation to begin writing; on the contrary, there's simply too much to take in. He doesn't even know where to start.

And so, this poet's soul of mine must certainly die a little by comparison here in the protective, uninspiring enclave of the suburbs, where streets are cleaned of certain grime, corners are lit brightly and drywall conceals unforgiving brick and studded frames; where pretty paint fashions a familiar compromise in the cul-de-sacs and the boulevards while fortunes are made and accompanying institutions are born out of privilege.

I suppose even churches yielded here manifest proper status and fitting repute.

Captive hearts like mine, and perhaps yours beat a little more softly each day in this sanitary world -- to a whisper, perhaps; its walls offer no relief. Somewhere in the midst of this suitable prison, pens are ultimately laid down by dreamers, when, instead, they were surely destined to spring alive, to paint, to fashion a stark description of life with passion, a concerto for dull senses that are desperate to feel something, anything really.

But we should know, you and I, that down in the jungle and the margins, a feast awaits for the hungry, for another Poet has previously formed these muses, once and again, on dusty roads with sandaled feet, choosing not to walk lightly upon pampered, favored floors, but to press flesh to earth with its grit and grunge, to conquer pre-conceived philosophy, refusals and notions of pristine survival.

And in this time we occupy, it’s no different -- we could breathe in the eternal inspiration found there. Why? Because in the underpasses and the miles fading into misfortune, right about there, he waits; his sandals, now worn out boots -- his journey, now oh so Harley-ish.

We’ll undoubtedly look toward the heavens with anguished questions that will often have no answers. Perhaps we’ll simply bear witness and let it all be, with pen in hand, soaking in the revelation found there. Maybe we won’t write nothing at all, but realize in the forgotten shadows and the outskirts is a place that we could call church, with blank pages to engrave deep within -- embraced in an epic setting that’s not for the faint of heart.

* * *

I’m taking my life into my hands as we ride deeper into the bowels of the city. It’s getting dark and this is gang territory, and I’m scared; but then I remember who I’m riding with. Before long he finds them and he’s mingling, talking, listening. He’s not looking for the healthy, but I keep forgetting that.

And it might just be my eyes playing tricks on me, but each time he stops and mingles and talks and listens and puts a hand on a shoulder, he looks like he fits in. He laughs deep and hard and I’d swear he’s known them forever. And I suppose he has.