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Show Go Love/138 looks deformed~a jutting bullfrog down Walnut Street this morning. We pass Sweet Dreams Flower World, the Church of Christ where no music's allowed-where they sing sweet a capella and the girls all have that perfect look on their faces, as if stationed somewhere between a ninth street whore and the patron saint of lost boys, where I had many, many fine looks up billowing skirts at the long, long legs of my girlfriend's one sister, whose black hair tumbled to her waistband, whose voice never cracked. On the right, Missy Clark's house where the mama and daddy didn't care for one second if she just up and lit a joint, passed it all around, the brother whacked out playing electric guitar with pothead Junior Barentine out in the garage, and about half the football team skipping a two-a-day, smoking dope and bouncing up and down on the trampoline in Missy's backyard Again, to the left, a house Mama tried to rent once, but got turned down at the last second for bad credit, right as I was about to unload our stuff from Brother James Lonn Tupelo's truck bed. "No can do," an old fat man said, carrying one of those little Mexican dogs that look like rats with bitty pink hard-ons, a little pink collar hooked to a little pink leash. Somebody's garden-old Jack Lowman's?~is putting on a show, morning glory blooms violet against the green lawn. O.W is silent, though his c.b 's raising hell-breaker, breaker, it keeps saying The storm's cleared, the air's fresh. The sun is out, mushrooms blooming in every pile of cow shit from here to Toadsuck Ferry "They're having a hard time." O.W. says it just when the funeral home's in sight, same place they took. "She was scalded pretty bad." A man who's now dead-kind of a mystic at the U. of A. who'd had a hair transplant, which maybe disqualified him as a yogi-once taught me a technique called shape, volume, substance |