Pony Payroll Bones Talkin End De Year 2014
Matthew PonY Bones Proctor

December Excerption I

At 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.

Richard calls Pig Town home.- one those numerous architectural hood shadings of downtown Baltimore. He is a gracious man.

Hello. 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 panting away.

My 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.

When 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.

The word is NEVER the word.--

One 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 along.

Sing 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.

Did you see the momentous moment(s)?

Kinetic 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.

Simplicity is always just a slip away.

The physical of things--- physics of things understood. The "how of things" dominants burdensomely utilitarian.

The speculation of "why" always leads to fatality for the seeker and those that are sought.

Once upon a time, a wild wind blew through a sheared field. Winter's wild unwept.

Wind blows through dilapidated row houses. Infrastructure collapse. The collapse of synapses. How many?

Stricken 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.

Two 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.

I 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.

The 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.

December Excerpt II

There is a polished table made of meat.

Coughing out fog.

Memory of the rain engine humming.

Night falls that i tried to be consecrated.

There are ghosts trapped in the chimney.

Teeth eating teeth. Stop eating your teeth.

Gouged his eyes out and plugged rocks in the bleeding sockets.

bone bark trees.

i no longer have to imagine the dissolution of meat into fog.

yellow of soiled calico.

The liver is .

The liver is the soiled seat of love.

December Excerpt III

Yes, the same old panning for gold in the dirty old blood. Open a vein. Open the artery.

Country 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.

Memories of tears I have shed for lover-s friends- friends- lovers. Family gets you every time. Cosmic tetanus.

They 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 women folk.

It 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.

There 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.

I 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.

I 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 RITE.

December Excerpt IV: Talkin A Country Sermon VISION

Splashing 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--

Till 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---

Getar 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.---

THe 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.

I 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 teeth blues.

I 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.

I 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 hustle.

Photo credit: M Pony / J Moon.