Pony Talkin Bout Tha Fiddle Player of Pig's Ear Road
Matthew PonY Bones Proctor
we were kids we'd fall down in the mud and didn't cry.
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.
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.
take turns eating rain. They learn death rituals over and over and
over and forget them over and over. When one recalls, the other
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.
are other parallel worlds.
us leave this place where children kick dogs and semi trucks are
always overturning in the rain tenderizing the meat of lonely unlucky
me tell ya yonder bout the fiddle walks. Walk walks another fiddle
be back in the day. You crawl through tha hole in the bucket and you
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
the magnetic vortex of magenta evening is upon us. The rust of
Indian summer rustling and sure needs a good shucking.
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."
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
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
is no outer space. Only inner space. Some things do not have
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.
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.
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.
is gonna wanna feel tha livin of life tonight.