04-27-2021, 09:15 AM
Senses of Direction
Start out walkin right on Pine fer half a mile or so. You’ll see
dat red, white, n blue house wit star spangle trim, n dat thirty
foot tall flag pole guarded by c'ramic angels, n a lifesize, plastic
Jesus on a lawn. Dat Bible beatin balloon butt, Roxie Rollins’ll
probly be out dare 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 dat ain't no bird-
it's em honey tone pipes of dat 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. Dat nasty stench means yer nearin sniffin distance o Murky Bottom Run
where dat 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 dare 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 dares '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 dares 'is small clearin, n a bit beyon dares a mouth
wat'rin red deelicious patch, so thick n sweet wit ripe’uns ya can almos
taste 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 taste 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
dares 'is 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
dat red, white, n blue house wit star spangle trim, n dat thirty
foot tall flag pole guarded by c'ramic angels, n a lifesize, plastic
Jesus on a lawn. Dat Bible beatin balloon butt, Roxie Rollins’ll
probly be out dare 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 dat ain't no bird-
it's em honey tone pipes of dat 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. Dat nasty stench means yer nearin sniffin distance o Murky Bottom Run
where dat 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 dare 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 dares '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 dares 'is small clearin, n a bit beyon dares a mouth
wat'rin red deelicious patch, so thick n sweet wit ripe’uns ya can almos
taste 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 taste 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
dares 'is 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?