– A Southern Turn

– Southern Philosophy

The sort of twee person who thinks swearing is in any way a sign of a lack of education or a lack of verbal interest is just a lunatic.

– Southern Slang

– Southern Slang

Winter, slumbering in the open air, wears on its smiling face a dream… of spring. 

We don’t belong anywhere but together.

She closed her eyes; and in the sweet slumber lying
her spirit tiptoed from its lodging place.
It’s folly to shrink in fear, if this is dying;
for death looked lovely in her face.

– Southern Slang

– Vulgar Southern Slang

Expect nothing. Live frugally on surprise.

~ darkness doesn’t have to mean evil

I look at you, Mrs. Emily. I see your eyes smile before your lips. Your hair has a curl that droops onto your forehead when the weather is humid . . .

Jesus dying on the cross was suicidal, a sin looked on by the Catholic Church so unfavorably that the Church won’t allow a mass for the deceased. But I forgive you.

The speed of your success is limited only by your dedication and what you’re willing to sacrifice.

Because I will always remember that when I told her I needed help burying a body, the first thing she said was, “Let me go get my shovel.“

True forgiveness is when you can say, “Thank you for that experience.“

In the Deep South, the Devil is a little ghost boy who swears and cheats at billiards on Sunday.
He is the one who reaches up your skirt, pulls out the prayers you were saving for someday and lights them on fire with his tongue. He will sing hymns while feasting on your forfeit heart, call you blessed while peeling away dignity like stockings, then drag you out in front of the church to be stoned.

In the Deep South, God is a little ghost girl,
Trussed up in plantation blooms and powdered over smooth 
with a little bit of talcum from Momma’s compact.
She’s the Georgia dust that gets on everything, in everything,
Caking the soles of bare feet
sifting through cracks in church pews, and catching in your lover’s eyelashes.

No, don’t call me a hero. Do you know who the real heroes are? The guys who wake up every morning and go into their normal jobs, and get a distress call from the Commissioner and take off their glasses and change into capes and fly around fighting crime. Those are the real heroes.

Would I ever leave this company? Look, I’m all about loyalty. In fact, I feel like part of what I’m being paid for here is my loyalty. But if there were somewhere else that valued loyalty more highly… I’m going wherever they value loyalty the most.

In the wild, there is no healthcare. Healthcare is “Oh, I broke my leg!” A lion comes and eats you, you’re dead. Well, I’m not dead, I’m the lion, you’re dead!

Why are all these people here? There are too many people on this earth. We need a new plague.

In the Deep South, I am the Holy Spirit with hands brown and gnarled as the great Oaks’ spiderweb roots
and a voice soft and dark as the Appalachian sky.
I am the swamp kingdom patriarch children are sent to me
when sins need to be wished away like sores,
My presence straightens the spines of wayward souls
and coaxes a “Yes Sir” from the devil’s own.

Jesus is the Deep South with drops of destiny mingled into his blood and the names of the saints tattooed along his spine.
He has his mother’s bearing, one that wears suffering nobly,
and baleful eyes that speak of the sins of his forefathers.
The word of God flutters from his mouth like butterflies with bodies baptized in tears and wings dipped in steel.

If we weren’t running late already, I’d pull this truck onto a dirt road and show her just what she does to me.

In the Deep South, angels drink too much.
They sashay and guffaw and forget to return calls.
They tell white lies and agonize over what to wear.
In the Deep South, angels look very much like you and I,
and they cling to each other with dustbowl desperation
and replenish their failing reserves of grace with ritual
in the hopes of remembering what they once were,
what wonders they once were capable of performing.

Jesus said take up your cross and follow Me, but He didn’t ask us to go out and nail ourselves to a board.

He was wearing a little bag of ‘Mojo’ around his neck.

I might just pardon you 
If you’ve got magic up your sleeve!
If you’re swift and resourceful you could outrun me!
I always love a challenge!
I always love a game…
The question on your mind 
Is in regards to my first name,
Right?

That’s the trouble with innocents. They aren’t innocent of doing, just of knowing what they’re doing.

Sing me a love song in a slow, southern drawl to the tune of a sunny day…

The orchestra of the world plays the familiar melodies again and again, and the old folks stand around and tap their feet while the young ones dance.