Pony Payroll Bones Talkin End De Year 2014
Matthew PonY Bones Proctor
the fading colorless late morning, I took Richard home. Rick was
going to take him home, yet he was missing in action. He was out all
night at the casino gambling with his Richmond gal pal, Nicki. Rick
met me briefly in the perpetual dark hall. He was a glazed phantom
with drooled frozen marbled eyes. He spoke and vanished. Rick is a
speculation manifested in the flesh.
calls Pig Town home.- one those numerous architectural hood shadings
of downtown Baltimore. He is a gracious man.
I will tell you this amongst many other things. The ghost squealing
pigs of yesteryear no one hears anymore. I dropped him off at
Chris's Tropical Bar and Grill. Richard had the day off and wanted
to get the day going really well by purchasing beer. Sunday is
truck tape deck eats and scrambles my cassette copy of Easy
Listening Country: Volume 7.
I will not be listening to "Two Dozen Roses." I am
driving a different way home. I automatically obey all traffic rules
without a thought. I have learned to unfortunately sustain
thoughtlessness. I drift sudden like the blueness sliver of blue sky
that briefly opens in the stone colorless refracted Baltimore sky.
it was night--- Saturday night I was stationed deep with my lover in
a shapeless abyss. I was tinted and taunted with marauding thoughts.
The night was opal and absorbed all of our blood, piss and shit
splattering (s). Claustrophobia us and open those whiplash wild open
spaces. This is called earning freedom.
word is NEVER
does not live just simply live through disaster passing. The disaster
is not passing. You are the one passing through. The world is the
disaster and upon this we go--gravitating the long litmus drift
your song boys and girls. Butcher yer song boys and girls. Let the
polarity birds serenade you sadly from the trees above when you
become tired or tiresome.
you see the momentous moment(s)?
action has revealed itself crippled and deformed. Building blocks--
basic energies motion and movement often fails the intended specified
default out comes-- The energy arc of any action amongst most
(mongrel) probabilities does not achieve which what would seem a
particular energy manifestation's most basic premise-that is---
enacting engaging and completing simplicity.
is always just a slip away.
physical of things--- physics of things understood. The "how of
things" dominants burdensomely utilitarian.
speculation of "why" always leads to fatality for the
seeker and those that are sought.
upon a time, a wild wind blew through a sheared field. Winter's wild
blows through dilapidated row houses. Infrastructure collapse. The
collapse of synapses. How many?
streets strutted out by those hustler hustled hustling. Sometimes
you get shot in the leg-Sometimes you get shot in the head.
Sometimes you still live after being shot in the head. Sometimes one
out of five can manage the onslaughts of homicidal economics.
boys are throwing rocks and broken bricks off the top of an elevated
greased toxic railroad bridge. They are playing the game who can
break out the most windows--those cars and trucks driving under
below. They both miss the beat up dark blue Subaru. The 11 year
old boy hits a bitch good. He smashes out the right passenger window
of a white Ford F 150 pickup truck. Next time aim for the front wind
shield. New game. Who ever can stop a car or truck first and make
the driver bleed wins the game.
just keep on driving. Drug dealers yell at me through the broken
glass on Edmonson Avenue. No time to stop today boys. I don't even
try to stop at the red light. I veer right. I keep on driving.
weather is 43 degrees Fahrenheit. Grayness clouds. Recalcitrant
whiplash. Insolvent resolutions Slight rain barely drips throughout
a lolling Sunday Autumnal afternoon. The violence of indolence.
Voracious is life.
is a polished table made of meat.
of the rain engine humming.
falls that i tried to be consecrated.
are ghosts trapped in the chimney.
eating teeth. Stop eating your teeth.
his eyes out and plugged rocks in the bleeding sockets.
no longer have to imagine the dissolution of meat into fog.
of soiled calico.
liver is .
liver is the soiled
seat of love.
the same old panning for gold in the dirty old blood. Open a vein.
Open the artery.
Night Gold Saturday Night. Don't echo and make love on the radio any
more. On the radio dial, I can not find my old country music
anymore. I cannot even find country music from the 1990s decade upon
the lost sea sick ocean radio anymore-- anymore---- anymores. Long
Gone. Long Gones.
of tears I have shed for lover-s friends- friends- lovers. Family
gets you every time. Cosmic tetanus.
were tearing down the old factory. My blood uncle worked there over
forty years ago. My barrel chest step uncle also worked there. Buddy
Hill they called him. He had a peculiar way with the fucking of
was my grandfather's second marriage. The first two matrimonies were
the best. Grandfathers last marriage defiantly became not the best.
A mirage of a beast twisting and writhing in booger creek swamp that
languidly resided below horse leg mountain.
is a rummage sale at the old factory that was going to be torn down
by the greedy church next door. A two acre parking lot is not enough
for the congregation that is increasing dour membership. Dour
devotional diving those speculated baited spiritual dull confounded
souls---who need this church. Their bones aching in the gelatin
meat. Their dry eyes praying fervently for wet tears this time in
this passion play.
wander into the rummage sale. Boards creak as boots walk. I find an
old fiddle case. Inside an old beaten down dog of a fiddle. Cracked
on the right side.
make a purchase for 29 dollars. I take the fiddle home-- back up to
Maryland --tha Ole Line State ---and make the Georgia Fiddle right.
I make things right. I am making THINGS
Excerpt IV: Talkin A Country Sermon VISION
serenity lonesome moonlight River road (s) gospel. The river was all
bourbon--the river road sang hymnals--the river road shone so bright
even slouching shadows were forced drunk--- Lonesome drones the
moon---we were drowning in the moonlight---fucking slow----I was
imagining this and it was REAL----Red barn death jig is a dog licking
through your breathing ghost clay--
your bones poke out glistening disintegrating...--the leering curses
shouted by twenty ghost women----Roosters shuffle thar claw at roost
dirty light till shadows overtook the red fade barn---
player wades through rolling water---Getar player sometimes cums from
a place called HELL.--Rolling water guitar lone VIolence I drift
with the moon hell---the shadows are all music bursting---The shadows
are cast by the infinite Gospel quartet.---
moonshine bloody of dead horses---Exile? What exile? Keep on living
incantatory moralistic allegorical country music. The shadows of
white lights on fire at midnight's baptisms. LEt me tell you about
the ghosts I will ride. I will ride a goat with eyes o Flames I will
play the string less banjo. I will play the banjo that is stained
with deer blood.
have smashed a rock through baptismal stained glass windows. Jump
back in line sonny boy! Blue countryside s mauled by the inside
outside cotton gin monster.---Judgment--dragging heaven by the mule
lost the skeleton key the countryside, the reconstruction
root...--rolling upon darkening roads--hours like whiskey bottles
shattering--evening whistling a whole LOTTO LOTTERY tears---Stone
glass Blue spring--- The skeleton crawls outta tha flesh and runs
clacking down the dirt lonesome road. The mud is frozen.
drink brandy these thistling bristling days. I hear dogs bark in the
city when the morning axe blade gets shot by a pistol. LEt us
Photo credit: M Pony / J Moon.