Rosa Chance Well
Self-titled CD - Kimchee Records

I have since become weak. Living in Brooklyn with Rob and Keith have encroached upon me the distance between my thoughts and my self. On the outskirts of Park Slope, in the baron fields of industrial lament, I sit in front of this screen pecking away at the infrastructure of an interior world, curiously chipping away at the statue of a former life estranged in its waywardness, formed at an apex of restlessness and mired in availability. Chipping away in diligent breaks reforming my self, a self further and greatly distant than the self of the past, a self undermined with compliment and compliancy. Rob lights sticks of incense and packs his bong, Keith deliberates over the chemistry between the angling of some contempo film classic and worries about where my rent is coming from; they worry about things for me. “Can I lower this a little?,” asks Rob. I muster “…sure” from the pit of my stomach as his reluctant "thanks…" trails him like a shadow into the dwarf-like box he sleeps in, click snaps and the butane sparks, thick wafts of dope roll across the ceiling, deaf becomes the room. In my chiseling I have grown masterful, channeling my attention inwards in cavernous boroughs finely worked and involved; never has art been so convincingly expansive, so completely confining. In my channeling I have felled accents overgrown with sepsis, I have compounded an army of death embittered with bitten tongues, encumbered with willful forgiveness. In this room time roots itself in confusion, in difference, in deference, indifference and infinitely. The boys haven’t paid me for the telephone bill or the electricity they use in our house. They remain casually unapproachable, semantic games they think I don’t catch, semantic crimes they think they won’t pay for, crimes of personality to which they are divorced. Shallow crimes shushed still like sleeping infants rocking silently in nervous repose, jaundiced and exposed. Rob eats his meals cooked in elaborate fashion, olive oil dripping from his chin, incisors tearing through pita breads and napkins, the thick stink of garlic adhering itself to the wallpaper, a self-imposed induction tacked onto the history of the house, his ugly voice traveling up the stairs and into my ears, slipping down my spine coiling itself in my bowels, resting until I speak up and loosen my stool, shitting on every mal-developed distinction, every devious charm, every instinct that composes himself breathing. This house has invested in the trust of fear, it is festooned on an island of weakness; we are paddling across a sea of glib romance and sinking beneath the tide. (Josh Gabriel)



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