Peeper on the loose in Chapel Hill,

and if this was Flannery O’ Connor’s

South I bet you’d have yourself an

unsettling run-in with the peeper,

where he locked them unsettlingly blue

eyes with you through the window

and he didn’t run or anything, and it

would be about that time that you’d

have yourself a weird only-quasi-

adversarial battle of the wills with him,

like who would look away first in

Flannery O’ Connor’s South, who

would slink back into the 102 degree

freaking Fahrenheit ghosts of cottages

and pastures first, who would be cowed

by the unwavering gaze of something

from another life, you’d learn is the point,

in Flannery O’ Connor’s South, that

he looks in not for titillation but to be

a part of something in a world what

already done left him in a wicker

basket by the side of the road, and

it would make your throat get all dry

and rickety just thinking about it because,

you know, in Flannery O’ Connor’s South

maybe you’re both the criminal, I sure

as hell wouldn’t go so far as to say

either of you was innocent, your tabulas

are far from rasa, but the really fucked

up thing is, and you’ll have to pardon

my French, because this isn’t Flannery

O’ Connor’s South anymore, y’hear,

and I think he’s probably just a fucked

up teenager who wants to see your naked

breasts, but don’t act so righteous, Flannery

O’ Connor been daid for 50 some-odd years,

and God stopped handing out attacks

of the ole red-eyed retina blasting Prophesy

a long time ago, not in these hills, not

in this 102 degree peeper-ridden heat,

not no more, nuh-uh, no sir.

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