In the rust-belt cadence of a Jersey shore ghost,
where boardwalks splinter under the weight of unkept promises,
you emerge, Bruce, a highway prophet in faded denim,
engine revving like a heartbeat against the corporate grind.
No iambic chains here—free verse sprawls like interstates,
fractured, looping back on itself, echoing the hybrid hum
of spoken word stages and Instagram scrolls, where poets now
blend lyric shards with essayed rage, protesting the divide.Your songs, those blue-collar anthems, pulse through this form,
experimental as a synth layered over steel-string grit—
think eco-poetry's lament for poisoned rivers, but yours
is the poisoned dream, the factory whistle silenced mid-breath,
workers' hands callused like the earth's cracked skin.
You stand, cross-cultural bard of the overlooked,
authentic voice rising from Asbury Park's salt-air haze,
championing the migrant, the vet, the single mom clocking out
at dawn, your E Street shuffle a rhythm that defies meter,
yet holds the line like a protest chant in digital feeds.Innovation meets the everyman: your metaphors roar,
cars as freedom machines, thunder roads to nowhere and everywhere,
longer narratives unfolding like the Gaza echoes in today's verse,
urgent, political, inescapable—your "Born in the U.S.A."
a flag-wrapped fist, punching through neoliberal gloss.
We read you in fragments, Bruce, pieced together from vinyl scratches
and arena lights, a poem of resilience, where hope's not naive
but hard-won, accessible as a barroom ballad, yet edged
with the avant-garde bite of wrong norms, root fractures healed
in the collective heat of a crowd-sung chorus.Boss, you embody the trend: poetry as performance,
as survival script for the fractured republic,
your legacy a bridge over troubled waters,
hybrid, humane, howling into the American night
you emerge, Bruce, a highway prophet in faded denim,
engine revving like a heartbeat against the corporate grind.
No iambic chains here—free verse sprawls like interstates,
fractured, looping back on itself, echoing the hybrid hum
of spoken word stages and Instagram scrolls, where poets now
blend lyric shards with essayed rage, protesting the divide.Your songs, those blue-collar anthems, pulse through this form,
experimental as a synth layered over steel-string grit—
think eco-poetry's lament for poisoned rivers, but yours
is the poisoned dream, the factory whistle silenced mid-breath,
workers' hands callused like the earth's cracked skin.
You stand, cross-cultural bard of the overlooked,
authentic voice rising from Asbury Park's salt-air haze,
championing the migrant, the vet, the single mom clocking out
at dawn, your E Street shuffle a rhythm that defies meter,
yet holds the line like a protest chant in digital feeds.Innovation meets the everyman: your metaphors roar,
cars as freedom machines, thunder roads to nowhere and everywhere,
longer narratives unfolding like the Gaza echoes in today's verse,
urgent, political, inescapable—your "Born in the U.S.A."
a flag-wrapped fist, punching through neoliberal gloss.
We read you in fragments, Bruce, pieced together from vinyl scratches
and arena lights, a poem of resilience, where hope's not naive
but hard-won, accessible as a barroom ballad, yet edged
with the avant-garde bite of wrong norms, root fractures healed
in the collective heat of a crowd-sung chorus.Boss, you embody the trend: poetry as performance,
as survival script for the fractured republic,
your legacy a bridge over troubled waters,
hybrid, humane, howling into the American night
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