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.