Tuesday, January 19, 2016


This is the line for Asbury Park, that old
soul-sleeping wreck of a place. One side 
of the water there is another town entirely.
Methodist-crazed religious village once.
Here too, all this Asbury stuff was once 
aflame with great religious awakenings 
along the beach. When America had them:
Great Awakenings, not beaches. Like the
apostles, with their Pentecostal licks of
flame, people awoke, enraged for God.
Now, it's all different. Coffee and a crumb 
at a beachside morning eatery, looking out
over a rolling surf, some storm at sea churning
things up, the girl here, with coffee to pour,
apparently willing to show off her breasts
as she bends. Today, I guess, everything
churns and God was left long at the beach.
Who cares, I don't. Who listens, I don't.
There's just too much to see and take care
of. All these puns and double entendres 
notwithstanding, today's wise-ass crowd 
knows nothing  of the smitten spirit. The
fire of a flame engorged for the Lord. Now,
they'll dance on the beach for licentiousness
and fury, and nothing much more. That's just
the way it is, while this world runs down.
Just the way it is, here now. I have, myself,
become a forceful jam for the taking.

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