11-23-2021, 08:02 AM
Senses of Direction
Start out walkin right on Pine fer half a mile or so. You’ll see
at red, white, ‘n blue house fer the star spangle trim, ‘n at thirty
foot tall flag pole guarded by c'ramic angels, ‘n a lifesize, plastic
Jesus on a lawn. at Bible beatin balloon butt, Roxie Rollins’ll
probly be out ‘ere jawin at Jesus, in’er holey slippers, pink spandix shorts,’n
triple large raslin t-shirt. If ya slip by unnoticed, consider yerself blessed.
Jus act natchal like, whistle a little, ‘n bear lef on Poplar, keepin yer hands
out yer pockets, 'cause at sidewalk's uneven. At a loost up, clangin stop sign,
'cross fom Public Works, yer ears may get to twitchin fom the warblin
of a sweetest soundin songbird ya ever did hear. But 'at ain't no bird-
it's em honey tone pipes of 'at ever joyful Eva Jones. Next door, dat Perkins’
bitch oughta be shot fer barkin whenever Eva gits on to a tune real hot ‘n soulful.
Where we at? Oh yeah- at thend 'a Poplar ya can't help but ta smell sumpin
real fishy. 'At nasty stench means yer nearin sniffin distance o’ Murky Bottom Run
where 'at reekin redneck Earl flops 'is rotten fish ta fester on a bank, ‘n plops
eye wat'rin dumps right off a path. Eben if he ain’t ‘ere I’m sure dat smell'll be.
I can’t hardly believe dey made dat rat breath, sweat stain, skank 'o puke
a depadee. Anywho... watcha step on 'a path ‘n head on up ta the tracks.
Trundle longst the train tracks a bit steerin clear of them sticker bushas
‘n poison oak (itchin for like ever if ya brush agin it). Comin up’ll be
a burnt out lil shack where them kids useta go ta make out til dat Horton
girl got gangbanged and strangelt. Man, dat was...well never yoo mind.
Up a piece ere’s 'is gnarly oak what’s got ‘n old, frait rope swing on 'er.
Getcha a good feel righta ‘bove da big knot ‘n swing ‘er on out 'cross a crick.
On n‘other side ere’s this small clearin, ‘n a bit beyon ere’s a mouth
wat'rin red deelicious patch, so thick ‘n sweet wit ripe’uns ya can almos
tatse em on a breeze. But don’t be thinkin bout pluckin yoo no juicy one,
either fom a branch, nor off ‘a ground, cause that salty little somabitch
P.R. Johnson hides out in 'is pick up, jus waitin, ‘n fer sure he ain’t no type
ta hole back on givin ya a good tase 'a some buckshot. Blam! right’n ‘a snoot.
Now yer on ta the tricky part- foller the bobwire fence til ya spot ‘n openin
where P.R.'s truck crashed through it a bit back. By a big bend in the crick
ere’s dis flat, smooth outcroppin where them idenical Dickson twins
uselee go sunnin of a day like this'un. If CindyandSusy are thar ‘n wavin ya over,
don’ be shy. They gon gitcha forgittin if yer comin or goin when 'ey show off
'em tans, but hey, from 'ere on out- yer happy fer sure an in mighty good hans.
Ya want I oughta write dat down fer ya young feller?
Start out walkin right on Pine fer half a mile or so. You’ll see
at red, white, ‘n blue house fer the star spangle trim, ‘n at thirty
foot tall flag pole guarded by c'ramic angels, ‘n a lifesize, plastic
Jesus on a lawn. at Bible beatin balloon butt, Roxie Rollins’ll
probly be out ‘ere jawin at Jesus, in’er holey slippers, pink spandix shorts,’n
triple large raslin t-shirt. If ya slip by unnoticed, consider yerself blessed.
Jus act natchal like, whistle a little, ‘n bear lef on Poplar, keepin yer hands
out yer pockets, 'cause at sidewalk's uneven. At a loost up, clangin stop sign,
'cross fom Public Works, yer ears may get to twitchin fom the warblin
of a sweetest soundin songbird ya ever did hear. But 'at ain't no bird-
it's em honey tone pipes of 'at ever joyful Eva Jones. Next door, dat Perkins’
bitch oughta be shot fer barkin whenever Eva gits on to a tune real hot ‘n soulful.
Where we at? Oh yeah- at thend 'a Poplar ya can't help but ta smell sumpin
real fishy. 'At nasty stench means yer nearin sniffin distance o’ Murky Bottom Run
where 'at reekin redneck Earl flops 'is rotten fish ta fester on a bank, ‘n plops
eye wat'rin dumps right off a path. Eben if he ain’t ‘ere I’m sure dat smell'll be.
I can’t hardly believe dey made dat rat breath, sweat stain, skank 'o puke
a depadee. Anywho... watcha step on 'a path ‘n head on up ta the tracks.
Trundle longst the train tracks a bit steerin clear of them sticker bushas
‘n poison oak (itchin for like ever if ya brush agin it). Comin up’ll be
a burnt out lil shack where them kids useta go ta make out til dat Horton
girl got gangbanged and strangelt. Man, dat was...well never yoo mind.
Up a piece ere’s 'is gnarly oak what’s got ‘n old, frait rope swing on 'er.
Getcha a good feel righta ‘bove da big knot ‘n swing ‘er on out 'cross a crick.
On n‘other side ere’s this small clearin, ‘n a bit beyon ere’s a mouth
wat'rin red deelicious patch, so thick ‘n sweet wit ripe’uns ya can almos
tatse em on a breeze. But don’t be thinkin bout pluckin yoo no juicy one,
either fom a branch, nor off ‘a ground, cause that salty little somabitch
P.R. Johnson hides out in 'is pick up, jus waitin, ‘n fer sure he ain’t no type
ta hole back on givin ya a good tase 'a some buckshot. Blam! right’n ‘a snoot.
Now yer on ta the tricky part- foller the bobwire fence til ya spot ‘n openin
where P.R.'s truck crashed through it a bit back. By a big bend in the crick
ere’s dis flat, smooth outcroppin where them idenical Dickson twins
uselee go sunnin of a day like this'un. If CindyandSusy are thar ‘n wavin ya over,
don’ be shy. They gon gitcha forgittin if yer comin or goin when 'ey show off
'em tans, but hey, from 'ere on out- yer happy fer sure an in mighty good hans.
Ya want I oughta write dat down fer ya young feller?