it’s 1997

gravity’s a bully pushing me down 

won’t let up

lost in words i

drop a forearm on all the keys 

metal arms rise up from a stadium of seated iron letters

and stick together 

like you and i 

just shy of the watermark

i pull myself up by the spine and 

hammer out something born of pain 

and misgivings

throw a dart at the white pages

seal the letter

mail it off


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

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


reading our minds

thinking of you
falling for you

neither fear nor misunderstanding
today. the moments
make me sad

how long will we have?

you are tired i am
tired not always discontent
but tired

by the world

shut the door

let us be

warm feet meet cold feet
lying on a couch reading
our minds

remix 1997