Rolling allostasis -iv)

She was in her twenties, when she surfaced from the midsection of an iceberg, the frozen contents of some formerly fluid collective subconscious experience. In the middle of nowhere, mind you. A slow drip of unhappening. Congealed into living memories (consistency of molasses).  So she thawed from her heart out, and the ice around her began to soften in her light and heat, and collect supine at her feet. Aqua devotion. If water had hands… then prayer beneath her dry eyes. So rare did this sorta manifestation occur. The glaciers melt in their natural way before her. And she takes her damn time. You don’t hurry a glacier. You age it, like wine. Or wait for her to melt, to reference empirical evidence of global warming. Melting butter at room temperature. She never left the kitchen table. Painting her daily bread. Turning and turning yellow over time with the wallpaper. Gotta get worse before she gets better. Baby blue with white flowers, soft and malleable. Almost vulnerable, fallible – almost human again. As she wishes. As they want her. Sorry says the fight inside her, delivering the roundhouse Queen Anne Victorian style. Round one…TKO. From a frozen warrior #2 asana. Feel the heat. Sauna.

by Katya Mills, 2013

Creative Commons Licensed

published @ http://www.katyamills.com

life fully hydrated -v)

How can this be?

I do not understand how the valleys of my moods, the depressive hopeless moments,  followed so quickly by juiced apple slices of experience, life fully hydrated, suddenly. A balloon under a faucet and full up in a sec. Then deflated, dehydrated on the baldhead’s head, tweed cotton blend wicking all that water aways away. Apple falling farther from the tree than expected. Parents shocked. Family systems malaligned. Whole tree requires semi-intensive therapy. Outlyers laid out. The life. The water. The hydrogen. The oxygen. The water. The life. Goddamn and thank you great divine so and so! Blessings upon us, for we were created equal, yes, we came out of our tight as a drum getting smaller every day single room occupancy in the great mother, yes, our eviction was preceded by water, followed by water, and we ourselves, in the trail of misdirected streams like threads parting on the map, like baby fissures falling out, baby bells. Each one consisting of great waters within and without this gravity inflicted landscape; sticking to the rock, finding any crevice, any hollow, any eddy to drop into, any vulnerability in the crust of the earth, soaked up by the less than rock, until this becomes more than soil, more than earth, more than pack, more rock than water, then impenetrable at some point. Boundary waters.

Okay its not easy but I did start this goddamn movement…

A b-side on a quadruple platinum bypass the foreplay and strike through to the heart. Please be sure to remember to disarm the firewall beforehand, so to keep the clear strength in its necessary potency. And whose gonna wine and dine our dear critic steady on the censor. Come on, give us a volunteer, please. You need a rake, to rake in profits… Ah, wait. A cool breeze over a cornfield cuts out and leaves the whole system simply sweating and sucking for air. T-shirts tagged to barbecue bloated summer bellies. This is america. I dare say we found subsector U of the USA?  This is economic mudslide, no? This is foreclosure city? This is free sister lovin’ saturdays with the egg whites wondering why-fry your brain on smartphone app-starts and childlike adult swim following in a flash shockwave tumble through the dusty inroads secured by tight browser T4, ya, the territory of titans of silicon valley. Expansive outward and immediately to all cities hardwired to take the fastest form of information, followed by a trickle down to the rest of us, out of the data form and dropped into the wifis and why? so we can all be on the same page at different times. The time discrepancy highlights to everyone the obvious differential. The high echelon high rollers of the world celebrate the spread of critical information like country crock over whole wheat, celebrate with the journalists interviewing them, the great and wonderful caves, the stratum and layers upon layers of this information, wiki superhighways brought to you whomever you are. Everybody everywhere becomes instantly enlightened, of course…

[to be continued]

Rolling Allostasis, Revisited (http://katyamills.com)

Then as life goes you find you get into something so completely, your persona, you know, what you do, maybe it’s also your purpose. You are flooded by it, simply deluged by something no matter how big or small, valuable or cheap, honest or sold… then you look around and find that many people know more than they let on, maybe more than they think they know anyway. Maybe they act like they know. Maybe they know how to act like they know. Maybe they know nothing. Maybe they know they know nothing.

 

Maybe you’re in trouble. Maybe in need of ssris or deficiency restorative vitamin shots. Maybe you need a friend. Maybe you have been befriended, but befriended’s not enough. Maybe you must be be witched. Maybe you need to eat a sandwhich. Maybe you need a who, what, when, where, or which? Maybe you do not know how. Maybe you tipped a cow. Maybe you need to stuff your face with facebook friends. Maybe not.

 

Did you include your exclusive in your earthquake kit? Tape your affirmation tape to your thigh? Or maybe they have been overdone, your fears and worries.What if theres nothing the hell wrong with you, anyway? Just experiencing lots of feelings, every day, just feeling your way into life? What if good news ceded from a thorough understanding? What if you can take those worries and put those fears in the archive; zipped, compressed, silenced.

 

You become salt.You become larger than your sediment trail. You travel horizontal, vertical, and your journey loses steam but gathers momentum. You are way off track. The meaning increases strength on the y-variable continuum. The x-variable gets jealous and steals percentage. The z-constant puts x in chex. Accepts no substitute. Tastes best with y and x. Don’t ask why, go on to the next.

 

Truth with truth. A wholesome meal. More than a steal. Always relative, sometimes changing, hard to define, exacerbating cultures dis ease, serves her right, culture! With a side of yogurt for acidophilus contagion. Served on a platter to memorialize the cajun. Always tryin to come off as ‘fine’. Fucked up, insane, numb, emotionless. Probably headed to the liquor store to check out again on wine. Achilles heel you cant smother under that blanket of persona perfecta you present to the world…gotta be your shaking hands.

 

You’re Shaking hands– with your divine.

 

By Katya W. Mills

03/13/2013

http://katyamills.com

https://kissilent.wordpress.com

’18th bitch’ -ii) fictional)

No tourists here out here, where the 18th bitch lives. Just forests. And arrests. And marijuana legalization activists, at best. passion for smoking trees. falling 2 their knees. gossiping like bees. please.  This is like one of  Stephen King’s nightmarish towns. Everyone shares one brain cell.  It’s a big damn mess. The source of our great anxiety and stress. But she looks at us blank like,  holding court over her cush job, in her nondescript khakhis and dockers, and polycotton mix semiformal dress shirts. She’s a loafer. a fucking sunday school standard. A fashionless come on. Her I dont give a fuck looks like some half-baked drop off, like wearing cotton socks instead of plastic.

You can let your eyes get sore on this human specimen. Take a number and a letter. Cause just a number cannot anonymize her enough.  the security icon on every browser codes red, when it examines her stuff.  She set the permissions to B-52 bomb your ass with ads. Your spam folder’s gonna be full, you will need some glad bags. They set permissions coincidentally to let her fuck with your androids, too, and post for you on twitter and fbook, it’s true. They set permissions, checked off the box, for her to replace you when you die.  She’s the heat monster in your laptop, like an old Intel chip getting fried.

We cannot hardly get closer to the point, but here let us circle the wagons for your ass. The 18th bitch is who we’re up against, when we walk out the door. The worst part of culture which we all must endure. You need to know her, she’s your enemy! She will ride down your hem and hike right  into your circulation, with map views offering her guidance in terrain. She’s scatological. She’s trying to survive inside your brain!

The assistant librarian fronting academic.  Really never graduated. She’s a long lost, old paradigm polemic. Excuse me, but there’s no other way to say it. The 18th bitch has gone and fucked herself and you, too! Her state of self-empowerment is full of good news ! She’s an asexual literati, an immature ugly bird, a homophobic, cisphobic, self-denying winner.  She is dynamite wired up to a trigger.  She’s a litterbug mentality, a thumb sucking totality. She’s a rotund, charity conscious, money dripping nepotist. She’s too toxic. She’s one twinkie short of pure plastic. She’s a crawling contradiction, she will rub against you with a pseudo-benediction.

What about Us? we are serving her sentence, doing time with this bitch! we did her dirty laundry! we scratched her seven year itch! she preserved for us  her home, replete with ankle bracelet. so far out of our good country’s sprawling suburbs… Past grandmothers house for sure.

your ego wants to be bankrolled

What is nice? Nice is never nice nice . You can put that on ice. Superficial kindness. Nice is heart felt, heart spoken, nice is sincere. I don’t care how the content may have gaffled the ear. Treacherous contagion these local tourists from niceville.

We need only be the distance from the heart to the head. Stay out of the head, when you practice loving kindness. Stay out of the head, if you don’t want to slum it. The mind is a ghetto of fear.The slumlord standing over the ruins is your ego. Your ego is not gonna bend over to plunge the toilets.Your ego does not see itself as working class. Your ego wants to be bankrolled. Your ego wants to cut corners.  Your ego plays cards with mirrors, and would get as intoxicated as necessary to convince you that you are gonna be king or queen and live forever. Your ego sucks more blood than your heart can pump. Your ego puts vampires to shame. Your ego is like mine, because every ego is the same: a real motherfucker.

You can either duck or walk to the other side of the street, or drown it out complete.  The tension of denial is on an IV drip in tropical morning heat. Feel it like a hundred percent humidity. Stifling. Replete. Something must be done. Usually. Sometimes if we’re lucky, shit will work itself out, rising to the top before getting flushed downtown,  underground. Where every asshole terminates.

The process is streaming for sure, like any vein of sound or vision; opened up for all the world to get a visceral fix. The heartbeat of a universe. The simple obvious undeniable pulsation, single cell to polypro manifestation. Scaled from way up high to on the down low. Time to smile at the faces. Time to overindulge or analyze or find someone to co. Why? Cause your ego said so. Pack in your chores of the day. By decree of your ego, slave away.

Only then can you go.

 

The 18th bitch i met

This is dedicated to the eighteenth bitch i met

by Katya W Mills

katyamills.com

Her props preceded her. She was basically dictated over by her fucking props. No joke. I will bite your beats! she announced to the world. She came into the world as  truth, got spat out as fiction. HTML underlay all her diction.

Wait, let’s react more slowly, like formation of rust after a rainfall. Slow down our pace. Curb all our progress. That bitch was on fire, like ice. Well, not that fucking hot even. Breakneck Banana slug pace. Break out your fuckin’ mace. Spray her like you mean it! Her accessories are a tugboat and some backup singers rockin’ granite over her lip-synch. Her shows are perfomed on skates, in a skating rink. She’s on thin ice and she knows it. Her toe socks are counterfeit.

There’s such thing as a deadline, bitch. Uncross your buns and feel your tits. You need a media moment or your history. A none hit wonder if you’re lucky.  Zero airplay. Audience captive.  Held up like hairspray. You’re as close to urban as Truckee. Census 2010 was sixteen thousand, like the crowd you hold hostage. When you open up shows like sardines, canned and caustic.

Every night they get xuded just to feel numb, you’re semi-entourage. Wasted on air guitar broomsticks copped from somebody’s garage.  Just to feel numb. You’re shows are best absorbed best by the deaf, blind and dumb.