Spirit re-release party

Our history
on earth

not unlike
layers of dust
kicked up

energies of lives

memories of lives
places and things


restoration software
digital remaster
cloud bank

cold case
gone warm

spirits release

the hereditary
in geologic

soft the gaze
looking back

the sketch

drawn up
from a winslow

Erotica #k

They went

The indents
Of his elbows

Full court

The indents
Of her knees

He made her
A figure
of speech

She was
so relaxed


So relaxed
Was he

The small of
Her back
The breadth
Of him

To Blade

A Clear
& Sweet

He was
So relaxed
Was she


She sang
The verses
He played
The chords


He sang
towards her
Words played

They would

Katya Mills, © 2013

it happens

You might think there’s nothing happening now

You might stop thinking and something might happen

Something might happen to you

Something might happen for you

You might fall in love

Someone might love you 

More or less



i was driving as though i had to put out a fire.  a dark night and alone. i ate a ham sandwich, cause i broke the speed limit, in half. then chauffeured to clean confines. regimented was the line time marched along. beards and lies grew wild and twisted. drawn faces of joshua tree turnovers. pop went the tarts. we feared for broken hearts. who would put them back together again? puzzle masters?

words were crossed and lovers’ stars. the moon was wax. the tables turned. i found myself stood up in second hand shoes. i realized by the feeling, i was wrong. compassion cooked up light, white and fluffy. in a new york minute. our tears receded to salt trails on thickening skin. someone drowned theirs, in gin. i followed mine back into the eye. which reflected me, redirected me, to a glowing sensation. the same of yours and his and hers. this was our collective freedom. we all arrived there after loneliness and suffering. and rejoiced.

one way to live

try and be honest

expect nothing

work real hard

listen well

train your mind

allow silence

endure the pain

speak carefully

feel your feelings

respect elders

lots of coffee

read and write

grow up

show kindness


sharpen edges


show courage

be you



i gave up

i gave up
once friends
who gave up
on me

to keep them
demanded i lose faith
in myself

this was sad
i prayed

i gave up
they cut short
so many lives

i wanted
so badly
2 breathe

this was hard
i prayed

i gave up
myself and
the world

some romantic

what i wanted
to be
to see

made a wall
stand between my life
and me

i gave up bread
to the pond
to feed
the ugly
truth duckling

i gave up
retail therapy
that’s a lie

i just ran out
of money

im sorry
life gets sad
im sad
lifes so hard

a timeless
the human
may not
make sense

one day is okay
the next is not

now i pray
every day as
i did
when i was
a kid

back then
early eighties
2 feel good
4 myself

now i pray

2 live how
2 trust how
2 give

and not

sudden breath (in my twenties)

Sometimes i gotta wonder about all those years. What i went through. So much sitting in denim on hard wood floors wrapping my arms around my legs and grabbing my elbows and holding tight;  forearms pushing up into the backs of my knees. My eyes scanning the typewritten pages all around me. So delicate. Soft paper, hard wood. The lines in my forehead from crying. My eyes trapped behind lids, cause I didn’t want to see my life sprawled out before me. Then the spots. The blind spots, when I opened eyes wide. Sudden breath. The scenario was coming in so fast and down upon me, like a subdegree wind chill through gaps in the window frame. Shaking me up and shook me down.

Then I woke up. Again and again, just like that. Sudden breath. So close to near death. Spotlight of the swinging arm lamp in its antics. Hair on my head frazzled. Feeling frantic. Would life ever cosign my imagined, romantic?

Well. Dig my heels down and pick myself up by the heels of my hands. A sharp push of a young and restless writer. Unknown except by the same isolated subversive wonders disconnected in shades of darkness, tickled by light, trying to write, all up and down the avenues in spattered fashion. Then concentration. Inkwell spilled. How will i get it out? Permanent. Marked for death by impermanence. Superficially fried. Scars covering caverns of emotional deleterium. Broken branches falling off a potted idea or two. Sit in the chair and bang on the Royal.

When lost, I would try not to always fall back to the ground. Sit up, lean forward, and push the qwerty-uiop altogether as one unit, all the metal arms raised up and stuck together like one unified blunder just trying to stain the soft transparence of the virgin watermark. And I would lower my hair and head into the stadium keys all facing and watching me and waiting for a winner. Headbanger. My eyelids crushed row four, seat eight. Headbanger and mashed. Impressed upon me some sort of cold surrender. So then, before the midnight candle wick drowned in wax, I might grab the seat back with both hands behind me, pull myself up by the spine, and hammer out something born of pain and misgivings. Something special, perhaps no one would ever see.


When you get diagnosed, you get to try on your diagnosis. Although you might have been manic-depressive, now you are bipolar so you go out in the world and feel the two poles, pulling at your mid-section. You can thank your therapist. Your therapist can thank the DSM-4, and other diagnostic materials that helped them reach that conclusion. Or you can get really really mad and tell everybody you’re shrink is trying to label you. Call it libel. Then someone might tell you you have an anger problem, especially if you set their house on fire or went to their school with a gun and started flashing it on people for kicks. You wouldn’t be there talking to them, if you had actually used it. You would be behind bars. Someone else behind bars, or even on the other side of the bars would not be telling you you had an anger problem, then, because it’s a given. They would be telling you stand up, sit down, and running their baton up and down the rails just to piss you off some more. You should feel lucky not to be locked up. I suppose you can thank yourself for not going off the deep end. Or thank your therapist. They are the one who put you on the bipolar meds to control your manic-depression. And they didn’t even know you had an anger problem. Geniuses.

not about me ¿?

The world full of wonders
The world wicked too
and its not about me
and its not about you

The nsa may be spying
its not about me
Nelson Mandela dying

if i will go blind
is that about me?

or will i
through your eyes
see things
differently ¿?

fight it

i see backs
of salmon
fight rivers

going home
dying trying

dead man

i see clouds
kicking swimmers

i kick
and thrash
like fish

the clouds

i am
going home