not a

you don't know me,
oh fuck you, you really don't know me,
you touch my kid i'll fuckin' blow your head away,
i'll fuckin' knock you down,
says the man in the white T on the tracks with the red cap speaking to apparently no one. well, not to no one, to his brain, so i could relate. i spied him from the bridge through the linked fence. The train yard was busy with clanging boxcars slamming into lines. The man managed a stage out of the little knoll next to the bridge flange and had at it with his enemy, real or imagined. I listened in respect - the demons hit hard and I recognize the dirty legion when they do.

When I left the studio I was without camera or recording device except for the pad. I took it out to record this scene: I saw deep gray clouds with the cool blue slate of the raked sky behind them. As I scuttled across the asphalt inlet I saw the black of the yellow traffic signal swaying across those blues and a view of where the wind tore down the flag and billboard last year at the dirty corner of Goodman and Main. I wanted a big camera and something deep and red like blood internal but I settled instead for the description and its subsequent longing. That is the case more than half of the time now.

That's when I happened upon the conversation with Satan. I began jotting it down, got thirsty and headed up the street to the shitty Mexican place. There's good Mexican in ROC but not this one - nary a Mexican in the joint. Matter-of-fact I'm not sure anyone in the place spoke a lick of Spanish. I go because it's close and because I like the Margaritas even if the bar boys are tools. "He's got a little shade to him" says the barkeep. Code for a black guy. They were talking about the guy selling stereos from his knapsack outside the place that night. The guy they denied entry on such grounds. That guy had more balls than the whole fuckin' joint put together. I almost said something but thought better of the trouble - I had words yet to write plus I liked the smell of the girl sitting next to me doing her best to converse with the nimrod serving. we hee, "shots" she announced and I turned my stool. The one word to kill a thinking man's boner.

So what's been going on with the pRoseDC? I'll put it plainly. Things are going relatively well. I'm only sixty or so thousand in debt. I have two jobs that gross nearly twenty thousand a year. My girlfriend has cancer but the last MRI looked good. I now have an air conditioner (and working towards hot water). The yanks are on a shameful losing streak but it's early in the season (so they're working toward maximum glory). The not-for-profit got funded until September so we're good there. Mom's out of work but in high enough spirits to hit the Jersey shore and I'm drunk right now. In short, we're good. The lord is patient. Sweet Monday nights. The perfect human. my beautiful dog. the sun. conditioned air.

transmingular

It was springtime and the spring bloomed. Easter time. If the spring is a time of new growth it is also a time of renewed youth. I sat at the back of the rock n' roll Jesus church on the floor, legs crossed, tradition broken, brow furrowed with a slight curl to my lip. A skeptic. Not of God or the power of prayer or love or community - I am a skeptic of influence. You simply are not the word, I thought. But I listened and watched the kids pass to the back where toys and fun and other kids play so they don't have to sit through the entire homily, bored. Never get into it with preachers I reminded myself. Preachers are like drunks, belligerent and diseased or lying. The kids seem to know this by instinct. God is where the fun is, with the toys and joy, with mom and a warm breast or on the long expanse of lawn where Rose secretly hid the eggs.
God is everywhere Rose.
Huh?
I said, God is everywhere, he is in everything you do. The preacher said to me audibly for the room to hear.
Was I speaking?
You said, God is where the fun is.
I said that out loud?
Confused, the preacher looked toward me, smiled and said with certainty, you said that out loud.
Never get into it with a preacher, I thought.
Apologies, please continue, I added as the soft creak of chairs and uncomfortable shifts became more noticeable.
Would you like to pray?
Together yes but not for me, not now and here for me like this.
Don't get into it, I thought again. Don't get into it.
Don't get into it? the preacher said.
Damn it! Did I say that out loud?
Yes, Rose, you did.
I'm sorry, please continue,ignore my interruption. Mass resumed.

Jesus, what comes next dear lord?
Submission.
To what?
To what? C'mon. God. Submission. Giving up. Giving in. Going down the river. Submit fool.
Um, ok, take me then.
My lord, my love, sing this. You'll know my love then when you sing.
But you are not my lord, are you?
I am a messenger.
Where is my lord?
Your lord is certainty.
Where is certainty?
Silence.

So I joined the chorus and from the pew I sang and as I sang I felt better and bolder and raised my hammer higher and as I placed it low it split the seat and made a crow and a crack. SCREECH, SPLIT, CLUNK, above my junk.

Artificial Standing Box (Natura)

Made about a year ago I stand naked in a plastic box in nature.
http://www.vimeo.com/4142151

then my blue morning

Tonight I have almost no words for you.
Be quiet to hear them.

The dwarf is bones in the keep.

The mind is still,
The mound is solid,
The solid is a bone.

The dog takes the bone and chokes.

Did you hear them?
I didn't, I heard the refrigerator.
I heard it kick to life and
I hear Susana sing.
The singer is quiet, almost a whisper.
In short breathes.
Can you hear her singing?
Because right now, at this moment, I can't.
I can't hear her sing.
Instead I hear the cough and the mound,
but the mound is silent,
and the cough has since ceased.