Post Blog Wayfinding

Here are the links to finding pRose, DC future works:

http://prosedc.blogspot.com/
This blog site is where you will find "pRose, DC: The Life and Times of a Twenty First Century American." In the past I have mingled pictures, videos and art reviews with the pRose, DC. In the future this is where you will find the personal stories, largely just the prose, when I am actively writing them.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/prosedc/
This is where you can find photographs from "pRose, DC: The Life and Times of a Twenty First Century American." New picture will be added with some frequency as relevant. As of October 2010 I am posting less here.

YouTube Channel
As of September 2010 I am living in Prishtina, Kosovo. Here is where you can find entries for my video blog and youtube channel.

Tumblr Account



This current blog site will be left as a document, a work of art, a post a day, begining roughly on January 15, 2008 through roughly January 15, 2009, along with the previous year of random postings which began in January 2007 on myspace.

~Rose

take my word for it

The authorities closed the bridge from Grand Island to the mainland and I was idling near the front of the pack on the incline inching forward as they allowed us one by one around the emergency vehicles. A man had jumped; parked his car right there in the cruise lane, got out and leaped with finality over the taut cable barrier to the icy waters below. Some parked and stayed to look for the body bobbing among the ice and debris by the light of the patrol car spotlight and then by the scan of the helicopter passes in the late winter evening. I stayed. And as the authorities presence increased, dispersing the half committed rubberneckers, and the noise of the emergency vehicles and passing choppers disrupted the stillness, many more left. I stayed to record it, feeling self conscious for my queer attempt to make sense of an apparent suicide. But I knew he was asked to jump, told so, as most who do are. For example, Jesus. So I stayed and looked and watched the waters for signs of the snagged body. I sat in my warm car with the light syrupy scent of antifreeze present and wrote down any meaning I could find. What came out was a list poem. I liked its rhythm and sat repeating it like an onomatopoeia. 'Take my word for it' is what I called it - Eye, Bone, Hair, Hand, Lip, Eye, Mouth, Love. Eye, Bone, Hair, Hand, Lip, Eye, Mouth, Love. I kept saying it and drove away leaving the body to bob and my poem to flutter off into silliness. And the whole way I thought of Buttercup, her choice to come, our pleasure, and the insane wetness of her cunt leaking over her thighs like the mouth of a viscous balloon lubricating our hopes. There's joy in everything I thought, with enough time we'll draw it out of everything. Cancer, customs, death, life, desire and all.

[This is the last entry to fulfill my obligations of a year ago. Thank you to all my readers. Look to these URL's, the current one here - http://danielcosentino.blogspot.com/ and the new one here http://prosedc.blogspot.com/ for future posts and new work. One love ~Rose]

tap n bride

anatomies sum

Sometimes, ok all of the time, I have visions. A thousand possibilities, their interpretations, their likely outcomes and then the hopeful one. It's this last one to which I give the most credit. The anatomy of hope. Then when they do not come to pass I rage or flop or lay down in disbelief and wail and broadcast my disappointment and act it out - slash and burn the rubber of everyday existence. The slashing leaves me without support to move on. Out of desperation I begin to see the environment and the beauty surrounding it. Its a dark thing more than half of the time. Maturity dictates I improve those odds. And then I hear children speaking. Patti would say that these are the spirits and laughs for the sex to be had and the joy of birth and the utter impracticality of being spiritual in this way. Fuck it. So I sit to write and pace the green painted floor and pour the coffee grounds over glue and canvas to make words if nothing more. Engage it privately for three or more to see and I'm satisfied. For now. What I don't express here is the academics. Speaking epistemology in interpretation for others to grasp and criticize. I prefer practice but not entirely convinced that the other side isn't offering anything. That's where the money is, the institutional money anyway. On the other end, it's in the market. One pleases few, the other pleases more and they'll flip and flop and drop and inch ahead. It takes a utilitarian to master it though most would disagree. In not a utilitarian, I lose faith the moment any one of us goes down unless, of course, it is me taking them down. But you know this already.

separate

professionalism is knowing enough about the world to let go. The trick is not to let go too much. Knowing your stuff and demonstrating it are two separate hoops. One comes from love, innate ability and suffering. The other comes from luck. Mine's not good, neither is Buttercups. So we fight, we get into it like any beasts and fall asleep in separate states, in separate countries, and wake up thinking about each other like we found the holy grail and covenant. What's next is anyone's guess. What's next is the limit and then we die. Of what I've been told she will die before me because her genes have mutated and have begun to mutate her body. This started in the tear duct and traveled quickly along the nerves of her eye, cheek, dura and brain. Blunt force trauma just for showing up. I thought of hell, my education and jumped in, for her. This mutation will dictate the limits and provide the answers if we let it. And then the heat leaves the land, completely, in the cold lake winter. Bitter frozen, wet, North American cold. Bah! What's next is a guess.

the den

the playing of it safe

I was writing in my little moleskin.
"What are you doing? What is this?" she said motioning to the pad, exaggerating the way drunks do.
"It's my notes. I take them everywhere. Record my thoughts."
"Get rid of this," she says motioning with certainty.
This behavior has worked for her before.
"No. You should get one of these. Y'all should," I motioned back quietly.
"Nooooo," she answers coyly in upspeak.
Well, Fuck it, I thought and continued on. I knew if it takes a measure of complaint it would be a worthless effort.
It's in my nature to find limits and I felt bad at that moment for my friends, my lover and myself as a loser. One who does't see. I let the irony of this thought rest.
Then I thought of Constance, her crime and her poker face and how I just nearly belted her one.
THE PLAYING OF IT SAFE, I wrote down to be the title of the next entry. Because, when I thought of her and the academic madness that scoops up the valuable pieces and germinations of authentically derived and expertly crafted expression as a cud to be chewed and gnawed like so many undercooked pumpkin seeds I have a measure of pity and fear. Fear for having it wrong and pity for seeing what essentially is the root of wasted efforts, power politics. And if 'authentic' is a trip then hammer it out. Beat the romance out of the thing and let it simply mean 'derived' as in out of life or out of body experience and not crafted from the necessity of smartness, laid out in the particular measured code of proverbial boredom.
Join the cast of characters bitch, we need each other for the dreams that unfold. I'll explore it, whether in the known or unknown. Friendship is weathering the cycles. Go round, go silent, go blind, but go. Go go go.

poverty and poker

After being ass raped at the border again and not but two miles into Grand Island I see the troopers lights. Somehow he spots the little red inspection sticker shining through the windshield glass covered in rock salt. (This year's sticker is blue.) Then, there I am, roadside in the rust covered heap of shit on the way back from a grand celebration in Niagara on Buttercup's post radiation life, her 28th birthday.
What is this about now? I ask the cop in a neutral tone. Why am I being stopped?
You're being stopped for failure to inspect your vehicle sir.
It's not my vehicle sir. Silence.
He didn't care, having made the stop, I knew I'd be processed and pushed through the system. The most likely course, I pay the ticket having violated the public trust. This would be a setback, the little things that add up to failure. Get your shit together and in line, quit fucking around, be done with it. This is how this works. The anatomy of American poverty. Now just to be clear with my reader, I'm not poor, not in any fair and measured sense of the word. I've traveled around the world, hold expensive degrees from leading schools and enjoy a plethora of experience. I've got energy, skills, talents and options. It would be a great feat to starve now. I just couldn't afford the car now in either case, my timing always off. The kicker of the matter is I had the beast in the shop some days prior trying to get it in gear to pass state inspection but there were just too many specifics wrong with the her. New vehicles come from one of two sources, other peoples money or steady per capita employment. Still, all of this is choice. Poverty. Like I said, I'm not poor. I've got education and that makes me wealthier than some, but economically, as in scale of income, I'm impoverished. America is designed to keep you on the edge. What's more is, your success or perception of success has as much to do with your failure as any measured quotient. Design is the great communicator. The design of everything - the design of your face, the design of your trip, the design of your vehicle, the design of your wants and needs, the design of your family, your neighborhood, your mailbox and your neighbor. Maybe that's why I choose to give it all away. There is a promise in giving yourself, that a greater and fuller experience awaits. A worker deserves his wages but those wages can be anything- they can be freedom, they can be trips across borders or trips over mountain passes, over cities or grasslands, over imagined terrain and back again. All of it without fast food or dreams or queens. All in all, the struggle here is not such a bad thing but it will eat at you nonetheless until your friends and neighbors are waxing over the void. Especially when the gamble fails and there is nothing else.

niagara

bone

grand, stand

This bar is my own private mother fucker.

He who wants to pin me down is he who wants a lotus,
Eat 'er up kitty kat, little man on point,
the lotus is your poker fish.

Dipshit.

Grand standin' hypocrite.
What does he bring? Authentication? Liberation? Masturbation.
So here we standin' and there we endin'!

All y'all, no intervention.

Balled up in phases. From the
tips of waves to private
kennel caves to rocket propelled grenades,
phases, phases, one step shorter, even for a murderer.

If you wanted war, should've chosen more,
a clue, a tare, a fight, a tout,
one who's out.

ask for a refund, stitch the punctured lung, bang another drum. Dum Dum.
Big boy's gotta dance,
watch him prance,
watch him strut!

Duck the one that couldn't cum
and pray wild for the sufferin' son.

We're one. Done.

operator

weakness is a stone lobbed at a sinner,
less, the operator.

dirty herds the possessor,
to dirtier still the end,

and before the end, the wine,
and the wine is my wife.

I flop toward you, my wife, like a butterflap.

What is worth destroying? Everything.
What is worth risking? Everything.
To this end, even the wine will go down till the chase is the demon.

Great minds find great constraint.
The best among us are silent. father. sister. lover. friend.
Every thing is everything till all they are is you.

The rest is vanity. I'll be your mirror.

huronscape

roc

2009