PonY Bones Talkin Country Trouble Music: Pembina North Dakota
by Matthew PonY Bones
Hacksaw the heehaw, Mee maw flunked over tha rockin chair! This is a true dullard dream jettisoned into biological driftwood. All events took place simultaneously. Due to legal issues and litigations, details involving completely salacious soiled occurrences have been left awkwardly out of congruent conjunction. In other words, you can’t fix stupid!
Sugar DNA diabetic blues. Pembina, North Dakota. A block and a half long. The oldest settlement in the Dakotas. The river runs ass backwards. North. The loonies run everything.
Mel McDaniel is soothing radiation from the crackly A.M. radio. Driving in the bleakness of nowhere to direct out meth frolicsome out or drunk truck drivers hauling beats.
Heavily oppressive sky--No Twang Just spiced whiskey sludge.
Local Yokels and us dancing at the only bar in town called the Corner Bar. You can play black jack 21 here sometimes and lose. The system is not for you or the locals. Outsiders are detested and reported to Border Patrol.
Halloween. She is dressed like a skunk with wings. Middle aged hot thang walks a sodden stroll with that blistering hot pink sweater. Her plump has been saggin for many years. I don’t wanna listen to Jason Aldean. I want the Oak Ridge Boys. This is about dying “Fancy Free.”
Pembina run two searing air raid/tornado sirens a day here. Crowd control? On Halloween they ring the church bell 11 times. Feels whole lotta like some gonna die. Somebody’s gonna get the death.
Border Patrol watching my gal and I dumpster dive hot dog snips all breaded up, cherry pie and cold cold pizza.
Randy Travis, the homicidal truck driver?
Don’t go to Grand Forks unless you wanna get jazzed on by the wheelchair lady ordering mesquite que turkey. Taylor Swift is all dolled up in the Wal-mart ready to give you her all. Red lipstick on cock. The put on for the plentitude of dumbed ass good ole boys. You go to tha Wal-mart and check out auto fixin parts.
I woke up in the morning where the Chicago Kids were ripping apart the body of road kill deer in slow motion with bare cold hands. The ripping of tendons by other tendons, both caressed by wind with slow frostbitten teeth. Polluted meat of adrenalin. Both legs on this baby buck God dam broken. Randy Travis sent his ghost truck to make homicide breakfast. The deer was pornographic shape shifter.
I run out of patience and snuff, sculpting mounds of rotting sugar beets. This was old news for the Icelandic who spoke Irish. He knew of the Vietnam fog. They were all on dope and thar machine guns were chained to thar corpses. He told me, “There was good huntin, those days.”
Mel Street is still dead. A blast to the skull. He rubbed it in while the fog of SmokeY Mountain Memories descended. He went the wrong way down a one way street.
I am the stranger at Ronnie Millsap’s door. I will kick down the door. I am understanding life more devoutly through spectral A.M. dial.
I got propositioned. Old man truck drivers still sing a serenade of Hank William Senior’s “Ka liga.” I direct the confluence of cold metal in spitting snowstorms. I git lollipops, like I was suckin cock.
I was tryin to leave North Dakota. I got lost in the playground high on snuff tobacco. I spun in very fast circles upon tha merry go round plate. A nice lady dog bit two inches sunk into my calf. Rabies of the slackened soul.
I was told I could not play 1930s guitar. We all left the only bar in town that night with garbled gelatinous insults. We were the foreign who brought outside inside. Insults were left for those torpid incomprehensible dilapidations. They were monstrous vague creatures, gelatinous or cracked. TheY got off by suckin rubber hose that lead to propane tanks.
The Ibuprofen bottle is full of rattling cat teeth. When I shake the bottle, that is how they rattle.
I cut off this fine Minneapolis Citizen at a cross walk. He wanted to be vivisected by the innard motors of my Georgia Ford pickup truck. He did not get his surgery. He spat at me violently. He quartered me with foamed mouth stallions in his heart and liver. I had to get to Duluth, Minnesota.
Three chickens roost in the red light of the homemade coop. The injured one looks like a goddamN owL. Remember, the injured one is always dying.
The twang and pedal steel is always rippin apart upon tha languishing heart and so much serrated. Hank Williams Jr., I will not re enact your stupid suicide. See yo whores on Hee Haw re-runs.