NOVEMBER 22. 1997

playing crazy eights listening to music

talking trash fighting getting high

twentysomethings in the late 1900s

spilling drinks spilling consciousness

on the dance floors of YBOR CITY

a blackout drinker in those days i

would lose my credit card and eventually

my wallet my shoes and my keys

my sanity. early hours of the morning

nothing but my clothes and my high on

and a couple phone numbers of friends

in my head.


#katyamills. remix’97

projections of a long lost high 5

begotten children descend

planted according to trend

dropped like fashion

and spirited away

taken from vision with

binary ocular precision

Made In America!

by decree by


you try to defragment you

hope for some clarity then

comes trouble. another

greenish colored bubble

eating bacteria to survive

projections of a long lost

heartfelt high


living off lip service the echelons

make hay. they

promise to play out tomorrows


robbed of nutrients you forgot

who you are. exercise occurs between

edifice and car

doing the laundry

you cycle back to humble

removing the factory tag

carry the sadness ina brown

paper bag




remix 2010

2010 tangible truismic

sometimes we are the half of life

jaw floored variety of bored like a


72 rpms back to back to back

well-placed commencement at the very end of some


got there with your body and realize back there

somewhere your spine fell out

drinking wine until you pass out flopped around ina

sorry omega-threesome like a caterpillar hanging out



you check your gps for self-locus flower

stop accepting all substitutes-imposters-splenda-and-cancelled-checks

go long and selfless beyond the ego panic attacks

get the train back on track and loosen all ties. free the suspension

beyond the words so trite and truismic

here and now we conjure ourselves in flashes again and again

until we reach some static in the attic

we need not be cardboard we are

solid tangible statuesque ennui
from the archive
remix 2010

dressed ina stare

this room. the one window never
saw a sun set never saw a sun

tired yellow light. emotion-driven
words. dawn not yet broken
and who would know

lonely nights in the city
she lay with someone. any shadow
wrapped in sheets

she was meant to be
surrounded by prayers
careful movements
giving hands

who would

not this user not this
lover. ceiling dressed ina stare
end of a cigarette
wet. blackened
the other

against his chest
she listened
every man’s heart beat different
and none for her

remix 1998

FEBRUARY 11 1998

I found a typewritten sheet from the Royal I had in Florida, 1998, tucked into my diary. Here’s a remix from the first paragraphs I wrote…

She lay with him she

trusted him she knew him no more than

the shadows the moon cast on the wall

dressed and gone by morning

balancing on the edge of the tub

she shaved her legs with a cheap razor

someone left behind


the blood didn’t bother her

there would be no sleep


he lay awkwardly after

hands in his pockets

she played a palm across his chest


to be robbed was something

he imagined he


taste of her in his mouth feather

pillow imbued with her





metal flower morning

she was a barista. my friend

gettin people high on stiff colombian shots!

she remarked

a cafe bar in a hotel

little round marble

tables. guys (and girls) feigned to read

watching her change money

serve drinks

looking around

thinking everyday thoughts i

waited for her to get off shift

listened to the steam

scream through silver


metal flowers

how could anyone ever

kill themselves? i overheard

a woman say to her husband

behind a newspaper

what with the wonder

of the world i don’t know

they can and

they do lady they can

and they do

shuffling cards laughing

looking and being looked upon

exchanging cash and feelings

young Americans

we had it good

we did

metal flowers

screamed across the tissue

smoking would kill us all

if we wanted to

so bad



remix 1998

Tampa, Florida. 1997

narrow dirt roads for legs
two moons for eyes she
was once that kid on a
milk carton

did not want to be found

twelve years later watching x
files smoking weed helps

the pain she
cares for her grandfather
and her son

they’re both handfuls

grandfather drinks and smokes
like he’s half his age
boy cries and throws tantrums like
he’s half his and he’s

she loves them without

i want to be around people
who give me energy
she shouts (competing with the
swamp cooler) not
take it

thick gravel roads for legs
half moons for eyes she
hasn’t changed

the traveler. 1997

life changed i

free of walk and free
of talk

those i loved
who had loved me

a sunny room
i watch you start in on
your meal

a couch under a modest chandelier
time passes
a soft spot where my voice
had been

ceramic plate
eggs and a spot of ketchup
a silver fork and listen!
do not speak!

contractions expansions the hands
climbing circles round
a face

you cannot
this cannot be

pots and pans brimming
with soap. good god
are we?

good god! i am