Pony Payroll Bones Talking On A FolkLoRe of iLLNeSS and Drawing
by Matthew PonY Bones Proctor

On A FolkLoRe of iLLNeSS.

These are potential versions of poems being collected in a work in progress Tome/Book titled A FolkLoRE of iLLNeSS.

Folklore(s ) should be recovered and believed such as any illness should be heeded by the flesh/soul.

Possibly and possibilities. What I mean is these are potentially disregarded truths. Truths exist here. There are stories that are forgotten. We live in a paradigm and a time where most souls are forgotten to the techno cannibalistic moloch.

This is and is not my folklore. This is and is not my illness. We are all ill and all caught up in the spiderwebs in the junkyard by the river. The river that flows through the country. The river that flows through that “dirty old city” as Merle Haggard would would say sing.

My illness is of the soul and body and to the culture. My illness is imaginary and real. I have a soul that has become a ghost. I was once a ghost and got trapped in a human body like a wild animal caught in the sudden spring shut cage in the wilderness. For what purpose (s) and by what?

Witness. Everyone must be a witness. Everyone is a witness and must.

I am reviving the corpse of a folklore. It was not a corpse to begin with. I have gone back to appalachia, spiritual appalachia and found a spring that is the blood of this folklore.

I am drinking the spring of this folklore to cure an illness that is incurable. Life is terminal and kills you. Stories and creation are left, no matter how obscure to help/heal/guide/instigate those around you and to those who do exist yet and to those who are already gone.

There is a fog. There are voices at the river. There are lights deep in the hollow. There are mystery lights upon the mountain in the lateness of nights.

Recently I have experienced a personal plethora of those gone to death and also those with illness upon the geographical periphery of this existence. Although these poems are obviously not directly about them directly, I dedicate these works to them. I find it important to do rituals for those recently jettisoned into death. Art should aspire to the shamanistic.

I dedicate these works/poems to Jess Johnson, Woody Cornwell and Tony Conrad.

Yes this is all rambled. There is a turkey vulture on top of the tin roof upon the disintegrating cabin on Taylor’s ridge. I have been in the Louisiana shack where Christmas cards and blank checks litter the wood floors. Where the pick up truck has gone long ago wedged upside down in the alligator swamp.

I’ve dwelled upon Justin Bosworth long dead and buried in the cold ground of a Madison, Wisconsin cemetery. I’ve dwelled upon the poetic use of the word “gossamer” utilized often by my long gone dead poetess friend Michelle, eaten by an alligator in a North Florida Retention pond.

The drawing included is from the Pee Dee mounds (North Carolina), which was a large village part of the vast swath of Mississippian Culture. Pre Columbus. Some kind of spirit invokes’/invoked

Matthew Pony Payroll Bones


Cold still waters Faith

Experiences slam into experiences
        Expectorant soul
Thur dark purple mountains
        I groan

Cinder white summer…
Briarpatch child
    Born on tha wrong side of tha blanket

Morn gloam
And last night was all just
1,000 shovels shoveling.
    That’s what the dark is.

Way way down tha dirt road around the second curve
Thar be thar
Ghost of Golly stone bridge..
    With a bucket of blackberries and a Cryin baby

    Boiled a polecat to ease up my lung troubles

No girl, no woman wants a hen husband…

He took to bed one golden afternoon
    Went died three evenings later
Gone tomorrow here today

My soul curdles for the river woman.

A Story

    Do not carry bones
Out of the deep ditch grave
            Let the house
Collapse        Upon
    400 boys
They were all
    Drunk anyway.

Tale Of The New World

He was an old world man.
blew--Blown--wind blew
        He mistook solitude in the late afternoon walk upon this new land
Within the NEW World.

He was an all blown.

Old man world’s hat wind blew right off down that dirt road one late afternoon blue sky.

Whilst uncouth strangers waddle waddle in the wade of misinterpretations
Who lay in wait to ambush.

Sights. Takes aim rifle aim. Aim. aim. Aim. AIM
    Took one good aim.. 7 them local boys only one hit the intended target--murdering
That old world man who lost his old world man’s hat down that dirt road one late afternoon blue Skies.

He was singing his favorite song from his childhood way back over in that Lithuanian village.

April 17th 2017

I keep my back to tha
Sun  Lateness    afternoons
And all tha shadows
Have taken kniving sharpness
Of opposite

THee directives of mutable architectures---


Outside thar be

THare are ghosts
Having orgasisms
Rain pulsating night

THa ole basement
    The basement
Morose contingent
Exuding old ole dank

Vastly puddles seepage
Fractured concrete slabbed

A lake a sea

THe dead manifest
Like film projections flickering

A flood of distortions


Pray for the dead for they pray---
    Pray for the dead for they
        For those living