sand stone

When my heart is confused with layer upon layer of thoughts upon thought…

when my head is awash in a storm of emotion…

I may begin to drift away from you. I may drift on out, and out of reach. Like driftwood, only to rest on some far away beach. You cannot touch me there. I will not let you. The sunlight may freckle me. The heat may dry me to the bone. I may turn white as stone. I may cry twenty rivers, and disperse out across the land. I may fragment. Into sand. You will not find me. I will not be found.

They say I can be heard. But only by children through shells long abandoned and cast, headlong, into that ever redrawn line the sea throws upon the flattened dunes.

Katya  08/13, 2:00am

K reads from K IS SILENT

Forever Stamp Our Hearts

pray maybe de-escalate to stillness

K reads her work from

sugar suite

The rusty old routine could not animate my day. i pulled and pulled and pulled. But I could not pull myself up. I had to find another street to walk, another way to talk. I needed help. Otherwise that old couch would swallow me up and feed me to the pullout bed, inside. That rusty old routine I had, had me. I had to act quick, or get lost in the maze of the folds of my mind. So I did. I did! I dropped myself down into the spinal cord chute, and back to my roots.

Next thing I know, I felt a tingle in my toes. And my feet begged my ankles to communicate to my legs; the need to get up and move. The parliament in my upper body tried to fight the motion. There was a commotion. Many an appeal was made in regards to the matter. Soon it was splashed all over the papers. An editorial brought the question to the people. The masses prayed upon it and debated it, in social media outlets, and all over the place.

You should have seen the look on my face. I was getting snail mail from Indonesia, and gifts from Tibet. I had not even had the courage to stand up even yet! My gall bladder had my rib cage engaged in filibuster. My spleen had nearly quit the scene. My auditorium had set a new hearing on the matter. My small intestine by this time, was digesting the overflow from the large one. All the paperwork! Trying to increase its surface area. Getting flatter…. and flatter. Continued litigation was gonna demand a ligation.

Holy shit! The lawyers were getting paid like an overdue cash cow, visited by the milk maid. Finally a congressional order forced a coronary bypass. My stomach was in knots. My liver was contracted to deliver the news in the bladder of a kidney bean, all the way up the vagus nerve, to the central command. Yes. The case had finally gone supreme. Matriculated to the highest high. That skull-encased complexity. The sugar suite.

I stood up in a flash! The motion had passed. At last!  I cried, At last!

Katya, 08/13

forever stamp our hearts

I could only hope now the spirit would work through me, to communicate the occasion of my life to the world I called my home. Proprioceptively. Indelibly. This hope, alone, was proof that I existed. Lord knows an all points bulletin inquiry had been submitted. A missing persons report turned up nothing. The first 48 hours had passed without a trace. And many 24 hours more. Until I was all but forgotten by my own flesh and blood. Long, long ago.

Sadly, I failed to pull a Houdini. Found myself locked within the walls of my own invention. Cooled and conditioned and stored. Downloaded myself on to some standard thumb drive. Hitchhiked my way through obscure constellations. Abstracted myself on a concrete canvas. Canvassed myself to an unknown cause. Freezer burn soon permeated my experience of myself. I got lost in my own rolodex. The librarian indexed me somewhere between z and a. I became an asterisk without a footnote. An aster-risk to the whole federation.

Then, suddenly, harmless to myself and others. Disambiguated. Inanimate for consecutive years…

then, suddenly, released back into the stream of consciousness, which converged with all the other datastreams to form some packed coaxial cable of infinite beats per minute into the teeming, elemental, ocean of life. Sulfate. 

The iron man and maiden had taken their toll on us all.We swam, ran and cycled through the seasons. Whatever would keep us above baseline. Heartlessness in triple digit heat scorched the soul. Prana, the breath, had been weakened by years of celebrity chain-smoking, bequeathed to the masses. We waited around, shiftless and innumerable, for some unrequited missive to forever stamp our hearts…

somewhere between hope and faith

for what seemed like the same amount of time. 

-Katya 08/13

Katya reads 32 bit clerk

Katya reads…

residue of the insecure

Some hoped to conveniently write off all the past, of wrongdoings. Forgiving themselves. Writing checks off their taxes. They tried to whiteout the black, with new grinds and new axes. Well, someone would remember, for history’s sake. How they tried and tried, to discourage our creations.  To overshadow our humble beginnings. To damage our reputations. Out of fear for the same. Discouraged, the more they saw us encouraged. Shrinking back, as they watched us rise. Terrified of being left in the dust.

Insecurity is a motherfucker. 

We tried to include them and smile and be friends. But they had lost sight of the journey and got trapped at the end of the line they had drawn for themselves and surpassed. Their demise was a prophesy, self-fulfilled, coming fast.  Their self-perpetuating machinery, would never take flight. Unless picked up by bouncer, and tossed out in the night.


Sanity went on vacation. Everyone could enjoy a fine primal scream. Finally! Windows were jacked open at any hour for the purpose. It was awesome. Really awesome. Like painstaking creations tagged harmlessly on brick walls, by parking lots and railroad tracks. Adding some light where there was none. For passer-bys to enjoy… meanwhile, at 4:20pm, greenwich mean time, all the breast pockets of all the starched shirts in the financial centers of all the cities of all the world, simultaneously blossomed black-and-blue inkstains.

spammers -ii)

On the seventh day of the creation of our world, when the divine sat down in the oversized rocking chair filled with goose-down pillows to rest, universal spammers continued to try and blast through our atmosphere like a Perseid fireball meteor . The divine watched with amusement. Yes, the planetary firewall was created well and configured without any inherent flaw, he thought to himself.

This thought was accompanied by a part of himself that he preferred to disown. So he jettisoned it out into the universe. Unfortunately, he forgot about the force of gravity he had imparted upon the earth a day or two earlier, to keep it all together. The part of himself he preferred to disown, went spinning through our atmosphere. And mixed with all of life. He had tried to catch it with a subtle telekinesis. But the softness of the goosedown beneath him, urged him back to resting easy.

The half-breed spammers turned red with anger and green with envy, as they watched pride fall easily through the planetary firewall and mix with human life, on earth, while all their acme spam-bombs burned up, incendiary, before they reached us.

Thus the common sentiment across our world: Merci Dieu!  (often accompanied by the formerly disinherited part of the divine). We can thank God.

Katya Mills 08/13


Once god as we know god, sifts through the twenty-first century mail and gets to our planet earth, after the sun and mercury have been addressed, he will certainly have paid google or microsoft or a professional hacker to have configured the firewall rules to block all spammers from the gates of the infamous and untrackable by gps location we oversimplify as heaven, and rerouted and folded them back to source, into spam.

Katya 08/13

the one-two -i)

She was a plain looking young woman; hazel eyes, brown hair, age twenty. She had a finite memory, the limits of which were self-imposed. On one side the limit prevented her from remembering anything that ever happened to her before age five. That was the age something good happened. She could not tell you what happened before, only that it was bad. She became loved at age five, and ever since. She was an avid reader, and particularly loved anything by Dostoyevsky. She preferred brown paper bags to plastic, at the grocery store. They reminded her of going to the grocery store with her father, as a child. After her mother died drunk behind the wheel in a late-night backroad collision with another drunk driver, coming home from the apartment of her lover. Just before she turned five. She remembered carrying a brown bag in her arms, and the sound and smell of the paper. Following her dad to the car. Age five. A plain brown bag crumpling, but secure in her arms.

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He was a dark-haired young man, with a cut and a part in his hair like William Butler Yeats, portrait of an artist. He had a smart way of talking, walking, thinking, responding. But was naive to love. He had a family history of bipolar. There was also a family history of running away, but this was only known by interstate records of relocations. He was twenty-five. He was ambitious to a fault. Job promotions and self-glorification would always have to come before anything else. These successes could be shared, so long as whomever shared them decided to forego anything that would get in the way of them. His mother had died young in Calcutta, of self-sacrifice. He had no Indian in his blood. He missed his mother. His memory of her was the only thing that got in the way of his uncanny ability to drown everything out and focus his clear mind on his unparallelled effort to succeed. He used to read, and preferred Tolstoy to Dostoyevsky.

to be continued…

Katya Mills, 08/13