Visions of the American Dream
A Tribute to Bruce Springsteen
We spent hot days breaking our backs working sweat soaked iron in grease stained clothing for a handful of broken dollar bills, half of which got spent the same night on cheap beer and cigarettes… if we had the energy, which was wasn't every night, but it was most nights because if you didn't do something, the nothing would eat you alive.
While Bruce Springsteen and John Mellencamp hoisted our flag and cried our anthem, the only real glory we found then was racing super-charged, fuel-injected suicide machines up highway 69, crossing lanes and weaving through dying towns in a desperate attempt to outrun our own lives and escape the twisted grip of a nightmare holding all of us so tight we could hardly breath.
Late at night, staring at the ceiling and alone with our demons, we secretly held onto our collective but unspoken dream that somewhere beyond the stagnant chrome and scorched rubber landscape surrounding our lives there had to be something more. None of us could see it, but we could feel it just beyond our reach, on the far side of a highway too busy to risk crossing. It had to be there, because if it wasn't, that meant nothing but dead ends and burned-out wishes—a vast nothing so big it would swallow you whole.