Pony Talkin Bout Tha Fiddle Player of Pig's Ear Road
Matthew PonY Bones Proctor

Part I

When we were kids we'd fall down in the mud and didn't cry.

Then everyone gets learned. Sometimes if yer lucky your folks just get you with stern mean words. Sometimes if yer not so lucky you get a belt to the back of the legs or a punch to the face, then the mean words sputter out strikes bruising upon your bruises. I guess things do get learned somehow.

Man and woman will always go fighting. They take turns falling drunk and drugged in the dumbo ditch. The two fools are fatally entwined and from the very start were instinctually inclined to dig a ditch so they can take turns falling into the mud ditch. Every now and then they fall in the ditch and fuck. One gets up always and cusses at the other. Often when one talks, the other ain't listening. Tits shaken in the wind or tha dribbled cock swinging.

They take turns eating rain. They learn death rituals over and over and over and forget them over and over. When one recalls, the other forgets.

Conway Twitty and Jason Aldean are the Gods of this world. An ancient terrible inflicting dismal duo of misplaced dualities and jagged sadistic ejaculating out corrupted authoritative powers.

There are other parallel worlds.

Let us leave this place where children kick dogs and semi trucks are always overturning in the rain tenderizing the meat of lonely unlucky travelers.

Part II

Let me tell ya yonder bout the fiddle walks. Walk walks another fiddle player.

Must be back in the day. You crawl through tha hole in the bucket and you can

time travel.

He was. He is. This man took him own whole spine out used it as fiddle bow. He was a ghost. He didn't know he wasz a ghost.

Horse ghost man scavenges and trudges up the allegorical absent hill made from blood sludge. Something or someone may be waiting on the hill top. Maybe got some words of revelation.

Curly Ray Cline starched tha day by feedin those goats then to the chicken yard. Indian Summer is damn hot this year. Your eyes by noon may crack open like eggs cooking in the hot skillet.

Curly Ray Cline holds the rooster like a shotgun. He cocks that Rooster and pulls the trigger. Feathers fly. Feathers drift. Hens cackle and lay eggs.

Curly Ray Cline is tha weather. He is tha weather that weathers. He is tha weather that weathered the old barn curling off boards of splinters with all kinds of different rots. The weather rotates destruction like a farmer would rotate crops. Keep things interesting. Keep things nicely pertinent. The circle that won't get broken.

Then the magnetic vortex of magenta evening is upon us. The rust of Indian summer rustling and sure needs a good shucking.

Curly Ray Cline walks yonder in his sleeping times. This is his time where the man feels the living in life more. Likes to walk naked. Takes a piss on the blackberry bushes. Carries that lonesome pine fiddle plume naked down tha road. Occasionally, the man will stop and play part of an old tune. He'll earn a shiver from a slow wind. God is saying "Move along Curly Ray."

He walks slouched like a burly black bear--He slouches down Pig's Ear Road. The night skies are roaming with staccato fleets of dissipating ghost clouds --serenely so black they take shadings of mysterious blue.

He takes a turn down into the hollow on Yellow Hen Road. He walks the road through the bottom where the darker green forested shadow shadings excavate tranquility from Cline's cascaded restlessness. He hears nor sees any animals in the tangled wood. The road leads thin up the dark wooded hill till a placid clearing emerges and the axe moon shimmers white bone shine down upon rolling hills. Curly Ray Cline still striding with his skull stammered in hypnosis.

Curly Ray Cline is looking for someone's dead body. The one that had a toad jump plume square into that gaping death token rigor mouth.

The axe moon shines down. The moon could go either way. Could get fat. Could get skinny. Curly Ray Cline has lost track of the lunar cycles.

The axe moon could swing down and cut him in two. Blood and spoiling muscle all over the dirt road. A stray dog with yellow eyes would wander up and lick some of that blood up.

Curly Ray Cline wants to be that dead body. He puts his body down in the tall field splashed with night's darkly dew. He drinks the dream of a woman he loved--a woman who may not be real.

The angels descend to visit Curly Ray Cline, the fiddle player who is between slovenly insolvent earth and the other place where no lines form. All angels are half man half woman with turkey vulture wings. Angels have traveled from far from home, the obsidian dark gurgling wellspring of night. Angels bless Curly Ray Cline's fiddle with their own blood. Black blood is black medicine.

There is no outer space. Only inner space. Some things do not have allegories.

A man gets up off the ground in the slivering morning. There are ladders of ascension to climb in any morning. He is patient for the sun bursting that slow deluge of orange flickering flashing splashing spectrum yellow upon tha stoic blue shade opaque. A river of neon blood is pouring out of the sky till it becomes invisible. Daylight is the place where one must meet the obligation of routine work. One must make a payment upon the soldered life debt. Every fool out thar is bound in tha blood.

Dew clings to the body as he ascends out of the field. He's gotta couple of country miles to walk. There's farm work to do at home. Chickens gotta be feed. Goats gotta be watered.

There's a community gatherin tonight. There will be barbeque pork, corn on the cob, green beans and crackle cornbread with the chewy fat lodged in there. Yes, the neighbors want him to play some old time reels, from yesterday's quiet hills.

Everyone is gonna wanna feel tha livin of life tonight.