when pennies were copper

mag wheels for eyes
roll out in silent film
silver screen dyes

down walkways
floorlit and salted
and buttered with
scenes

of someone else’s storied
childhood

long legs falling in love
with strapping lads on streets
paved flat by
pennies

land without
cell phones

a sunday. 1955
a city. 1959

when churches were
sanctuaries

mark the time
by the bells and
the sun

we rest on
bloody knees

the automobile
extinct

home. 1936
the sky. 1910

the pool
1920 and two metres
deep

the denim
1969. when pennies
were copper

the board
she saw better
days

cut elbows
in ink

porcelain cheap
for the poor

inscripted
the names
in powder blue
soap

sliding down rails
to the subway

we saw better
days

laughter echoes

a certain
despair

– KatYa, July’17

1984.kids

July came along and nobody knew our names
the fireworks were popping
no one could see them
they peppered our ears

we checked the sky
the powder had ignited
the oxygen burned
the paper falling to ground

after dark
we saw the snakes flying
umbrellas of light
the stars draped by the tails

slowly we recognized
who we were
motionless
cars and voices
and our names being called
in the night

cars and voices and our names
being called

motionless
in the night

our names
being called

KatYa, 2017

peaches

peaches. subsumed

all the rest
made me only more tired
so i stopped sleepin
now im
trackin shadows
cross the wall
while my ice cubes
wave water trails
into ginger ale
rattlin the cubes
against the glass
to remember you
the man above me
looks off the wall into space
dreaming of life
with someone real
i am sunk into a couch
like buried treasure
all the gouramis gape at me
silent kissing
an air bubble
tough feelings to feel inside
more than i can handle
i
rattle the cubes
to remember you
another character
jumps off a page
into my heart
i wonder bout the man
the life in two
dimensions. how safe not having
a back to watch
not being real
how safe
how dry
how terrible
you cannot
lend a friend
a hand or take a stand
brushed off
like you are. canvassed
for meaning
pretty rendition
come into my heart!
lemme hold you there
make you real
i rattle the glass
and remember you
wax inwards
street sweep the cottons
real estate gets pricey
along the ear canal
listen
i need an extension
of gratitude
outward. my ideals are almost met
almost
there is
there is
still time yet

wall ball

naked like ankles
bit by geese
scraped on thorns
bloodshot

our eyes
behind caked makeup an
low-grade petroleum
products
our scars
salvage yards
smoke trails
pic’n’pull
highways
bits of plastic
bits of plaster
bits of glass

we are
wall ball material
circa 1973

our water
steady boiling
ona stove
poached eggs
double-breasted
back-stabbings
on front street

the boardwalk vanishes

in the fog
in the cloud

gas consumption
tele vacation
the coffee
sure is bitter
around here

for now
you made a friend
i made a friend
my gosh

you can do that
you see
young runaway
you did

promise

once there was a boy named bee

upon my knee
softly telling me how rivers
did not reach the sea in the year
twenty twenty three
some were black others blue
in twenty twenty two
and none could you wash your
self in
his eyelashes fluttered
feeling me shudder
i could tell
he honestly knew
he unbuttoned my collar
i cried and hollered and then he promised
just breathe
then rolled up our sleeves so carefully
we could see those cuts on
our arms
with one finger
he crossed my lips
tenderly looking into my eyes
and
we existed quietly there
until about quarter past one
bee upon my knee
and me
i wondered if all of the darkness
 he shared
could
     ever
         be
          undone
yet i knew our
                 pain
             was
         the
same
– KatYa, 2017

journal entry

journal # 22 of april

the sunlight fell and we rose up
to meet it everyone
on the street

it burst into constellations
of broken glass
in the road

we stretched into lengths of newfound
lands verdant green were we

thin strips
followin the tracks
out to where grass prospered

here we forgot all those lives
in the newspapers they
stacked up against
us

the rainy days
we missed them