A Train of Thought Poem, Plumbing the Poet Springsteen

Plumbing the Poet Springsteen
I feel transferred by the words of Bruce Springsteen to a place where I can see my heart clearly and cry at the sight of it. The brilliant disguise that I see when I look in the mirror is reflected in every sentence of that masterful song. I know that what I see in people, in women is sometimes just such a disguise that I don’t trust what they are. I don’t trust them until I can see enough of them to judge how much of myself I will let them see. Then, I have myself in a paradox of reason as they can only see my disguise that I allow them to see. Then, at times it drops. Then at times it drops and they see the somewhat tattered remains of the images I have collected over my years. La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la na na. Oh, my oh my, what is this thing I’ve created in myself to show all. It is nothing like the sorrow of the lonely nights or the insecurity of the days I spent feeling the latest hair to leave my head. They won’t see this because I don’t trust them. I only trust them with what I feel they can handle. Wait. Not what they can handle, what I decide they can handle. I have no interest in their knowing any more than what I have determined to be what will hurt me the least if thrown back at me, or questioned. However, there is hope. There is hope in those who write my thoughts and mirror my heart. There is hope in this simple letter. There is hope in the letters that form the words that form the sentences that form the story that is my heart and my soul. The voice crying in the wilderness to be heard. The silent mutterings in the night when no one else is around, so that the only one who can understand and appreciate them can filter them back to prepare me for what will come and who will come. Those who now have a whole new line of defense to penetrate in the hopes of finding lucky town. Bruised and battered, I’m lying awake, and I can feel myself fading away. Fading to that plane of existence where we are all connected by lack of pretension and expectation and are free to kick soccer balls against park walls alone with a patient smile across our faces. The love of all flowing up through the souls of our feet. Where we are born and able to connect with all and none at the same time, so as not to be compromised or compressed so much and far down that the sight of what is clean and pure is lost in the muddled waters of screaming voices of attention and fame and fortune. I will never be that. I will never be successful in any sense of the word. I will never achieve stardom, and few if any will hear my voice, as I am in the wilderness, but once we fade... Once we fade and feel each other and connect with obstacles like distance and time destroyed by He who can. .. Then we can feel and hear each other and fortune and fame mean as little as the fifty cents we were saving for that special day when we could buy a solitary flower to wear on our lapel while the crowds cheered at our heroics, only to realize that the day ended before it started and the flower would have been better left in the ground where it could have fulfilled its days staring at the sun and rain and moving with the motions of the air while we passed by and smiled at the bright beauty that it gave us just for that one minute. That day of grandeur, gone, with the fading of ourselves as we became I, and forgot what it was that separated ourselves. The heart that I left across the Pacific ocean once more beating in my chest and I cruising post haste into the horizon with the warmth of all around me. My all and all being in one, and sharing in a little of that human touch that was so destroyed by the excess touch of romantic recklessness and heartless discipline. The fuel of anger causing the pain and distortion of reality so prevalent to those who cannot breath and see their own disguise so brilliant in its deceptive intrigue. Holding those close whose hearts beat at the same rhythm as yours as they let the cloak of disguise fall off to be comforted by the lack of judgment and expectation. 41 shots in the face of those who wait patiently and take the heat of living with the expectation of inspiration and the acceptance of its absence. The patience of it all. The patience of it all. Some quiet inspiration as real as the plates shifting below the ground below us, moving us, taking us where they will without our input. Safe and sound in the city in the clouds of our minds. Allow what may come what may and let all else fade away. I take a picture of an empty courtyard in a mountain city in Portugal and all at once expose my soul and my heart to those that are perceptive enough to see it. If they care, if they don’t is of no consequence to me, as I see the image in the shudder forever printed in black and white exposing the lines and cracks of the city never to be seen again in the same time, space and locale. Only to be seen in retrospect. Cry my sweet angel of the East who flies away. Cry my angel of the West who cannot comprehend the impact of leaving. Cannot comprehend and thus understands it all clearly. Sees the vivid lights and colors of the world and goes beyond them into the fade where we all meet. I see her in my eyes, while the band plays, what were those words whispered baby while I turned away. Were they that you could feel and see me without my disguise on, or were they simply that you couldn’t see. You see that whether you knew or didn’t know did not matter, but that you felt and in feeling you knew it all. That message that was swimming below the waves of what was being said was what you wanted to say , but didn’t have to. You didn’t have to as we were both underneath the waves all along, safe and secure in our beauty. You saw me, and I saw you, and words mattered not. You better get it straight darlin’. I believed in the love you gave me. I believe, I believe, I believe, and I rock my head from side to side, and hear it all. The badlands of the days of old that no one ever wants to return to, and I see them now fading with every happy thought. Ocean deep inside, and all of those things that hint at a depth that cannot be plumbed.