pRose, DC

The pRose,DC has moved

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 23:24:00 +0000

click on the image to gain access to the new pRose, DC blog site

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.

Post Blog Wayfinding

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 05:35:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 03:22:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 07:09:00 +0000

anatomies sum

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 14:54:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 02:04:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 04:02:00 +0000

the playing of it safe

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 04:23:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 23:07:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 00:29:00 +0000

bone

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 01:51:00 +0000

grand, stand

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 06:26:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 01:55:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 14:13:00 +0000

roc

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 04:37:00 +0000

2009

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 22:40:00 +0000

year in siv

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 23:13:00 +0000

Let's see. At this time last year I was just about at the end of my time in debauchery, radical debauchery. I had no liege, no care and nothing to lose. And then all of fate shifted the moment I tongue kissed my friends at the end of that dirty little hipster bar. _ _ _ _ took her drugs and left. Well more accurately, made a bunch of phone calls, withheld her pills and dragged it out for another two weeks but that was the moment it was essentially over. E3 had it out too, that was it for him, don't kiss a black man in public. Period. He held on to that shit for six weeks and showed up at the office to end it. Well, more accurately, he dragged it out for another month or two but that moment was it, over. That one hit me just as hard. Hard is a good word for it - we live hard, we play hard, we go down hard, we end each other with such course certainty and drag ourselves like rag dolls over the broken asphalt, usually high on something. Quick. It's over. Whack. And then it is. All in all, what goes down is a matter of pride and certainty. Each wants more than the next. Each wants another jewel, another dollar, another fuck, another heart, another year and will be willing to give up each, one by one, until the totality of it is something like a negative sum. Letting go is good. Necessary. But sad, like toy soldiers, individually sad, empty. Then the lonely time in the empty places is spent on romantic ideology or worse, sentimentality, awful, waiting for a time to return or a new one, more perfect than the last, to begin. Or if the utter pain of it comes to bear and lays one out cold then desperation sets in and efforts are made to salvage the pieces. I'm a salvager. I believe long gone and broken things can be brought to life for the love they failed to realize. On a phone call or a wish wars can be undone, crimes can be erased and we can march forward for all of our hapless wants and actions.

I tried to make it everyday. I made a pledge to do it but once the cancer came to town I faltered and missed here and there but managed to maintain one post per day on average as some days I gave two or more. Plus the pictures. Pictures will often suffice for several days. The right ones, rightly placed. I managed to make it and to make it known where I was and just how far off I choose to go. I started this on the 15 of January and I'll carry it out until then being certain that 365 entries for the year from January 15, 2008 to January 15, 2009 are complete. I'll do it for you. I'll complete this for you and for myself because I can't give up and I won't give up and I don't give up. A salvager.

Then there are two projects on the horizon; Buttercup & Rose, all of the dirt and scars, piss and shit, flora and joy that shoves us toward perfection, and next year's project with the big camera, views of tomorrow from what made me. Stay tuned.

Stay solid in the heat of it tonight. Stay warm and look your neighbor in the eye and hold out your hand and ride, supine to the motor...

beat

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 06:24:00 +0000

Bang the drum slowly.

Wake up Daniel.
It's Rose.
Wake up.
I'm awake, I've been awake.
What have you been hiding?
Nothing.
True. Then what more do you need?
Depends who's asking.
Silence.
I need a way to safety.
You will not get this.
I need a telephone call then.
Who will you call?
Buttercup.
She will use you.
I want her to.
She will disappoint you.
I want her to.
Then you will get more of this.
I shake my head, looking down between my knees.
Get your friend to the doctor.
Which friend?
Mack.
Mack collapsed a few days back, clear out, for several minutes, paralyzed as in a stroke. Then he came to, scared and looking for help, not mustering up enough strength with the paralysis to get the phone out. Buttercup calls.

Hey babe.
Daniel I'm sick.
It's Rose.
Babe, what should I do?
What hurts?
My stomach, on the right side.
Is this your intestine or your liver? Is it your small intestines hurting?
I don't know. I'm scared.
I shake my head again as in a yes, looking down between my knees.
What do the doctors say?
They say it sounds like gall bladder stones.
(Shit those are painful.) Fuck. Let me look them up.
Are you online?
Just a minute. (Sure enough, symptoms indicate bile.)
I'm not sure how much more of this my body can take.
Yea.
What should I do?
Wait and if the pain is too much go to the emergency room.
Why don't you come live here?
And do what doll? (But I knew I would be better off just leaving, defecting if necessary.) I'll need supplies. But I must come on my own, not for sickness.
This sucks.
Most things do.
And I can hear the voices of my children stammering about. I can hear them calling me from across the open land and hear their responses. I can hear it over the dirty pine and clanging steel of the rail below. I can hear it over the loudmouth fags near the end bar stool chucking darts. I can hear them over the voices of other children nestled in with family. I can hear my children's voices louder than the ringing of my ears and louder than the pulse of body fluid over strained pants and groans of night terrors. I hear something there. And before long I know I'll be asleep and the morning will come and I'll get up, if nothing more than, to find out what comes next.

58 confusion

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 04:42:00 +0000

radiation (tomo)

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 07:05:00 +0000

crossing borders

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 06:08:00 +0000

I watched the border guard flip through my notes, reading and straining to read the details.
Why are you traveling in someone else's car?
I borrow it to see my girlfriend.
Where'd you meet her?
The girlfriend or the owner of this car.
The girlfriend.
Where I work, at the museum.
Why does she let you use her car?
(Have you seen the car dipshit? It's an '89 rust covered shitbox. I bought it but she registered it because it is cheaper. I don't want a car really but my girlfriend got cancer so I made it happen.)
Because I need it to see my girlfriend. I cross about every other week in this car. Is there a way I can avoid this? Is there a way I can avoid this type of treatment?
Cross in your own car.
Right.

Fuck it, I read where the guard read. The guard is a woman.
"One heel underneath her ass comes the tomb. One heel and we are sunk. An Indian (the Eastern Bunch) and a cyst, the growing kind, the ones that have a dabble, we're here, we're born. Baby I DO LOVE YOU but do you see me, can you see me? Do you have the purpose and the pardon. All of your superficial interests are gone and done. You are done. As sure as cancer has told you, you are done and we are afloat. We are the memory of you. You are the memory of we. I hate Romantics more than sentimentalists. We are cooked together in the witches stew. WE are entropimentalists." -- "Tell Z, move thru - bend the branches"

of myths and madmen

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Sun, 28 Dec 2008 05:55:00 +0000

Dear reader the time is coming where I am going to say goodbye to you again. The year is nearly over and you have been privy to most of it. I can share some and to my
extent will say that it is a precarious road, a thin line, a vaulted mirror. I see it and then I don't. You see more, that's the thing. How could I know any of it? A year. But I've got something to lose now. I always did but now I see it. There are those of you who hate it and who hate me. I think of the cowards and madmen, the whores and angels and I know I am blessed. Right now, there is work to do. And I'll do it until the blow comes that lays it low. Rise up you dirty bitches, make merry in the spotted sea and watch for the code. Your neighbor will deliver the news.

Calves and babies

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Sun, 28 Dec 2008 01:40:00 +0000

the hall

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 18:31:00 +0000

church

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Cosentino) — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 18:17:00 +0000