when i die bury me pen in hand
typewriter for a stone. do not trust your sight
or touch the body scentless
cold and frightful in the ground
while my spirit seen there
wanderin the cemetery grounds leans
off a row whistling some
semisweet show tune
#katyamills
an army nurse out of shiloh
tennessee found herself deep
in the hornet’s nest. after the war
came west. the sunken road
prominent in her nightmares
the men bloody and dying
gasping unable to speak she
could not turn away her
stone is simple she passed
in 1903
#katyamills
The urge is to break away from the pack and recover my own heartbeat, whenever I am lost in the crowd, and like Debussy’s ‘Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun’ my pulse on its own stands wobbly and inquisitive at first, wishing for the comfort of the soft blankets left behind, and gathering my strength with the first light to see myself through to some incidental rhythm which might pick me up and love me a little and carry me, not unlike a waltz, a Kachaturian favorite at the Bolshoi Ballet, anything that begins to throb and push my blood out for more, more, more… ’cause what we have here is not enough, my friend, not enough at all to justify the effort life demands, no, to go on living requires an advancement of faith sometimes, a personal loan of decisive courage written off an account in arrears, I mean therefore a great risk of sorts only could be taken by a fool or someone who cannot fail. And that would be me, dear sir, enfathomed in the stabilizing clay of primordial pockets, ready to be fired and glazed, a modern day rockstar sold out to the streets and kicked by a label, stretched to the capillaries on short supply of sanity, appeal in the curiosity of all that’s gone wrong when dipped in the culture, coming out bold print with a comic sans striation. A modern day American girl with a penchant for obscurity and woven matte finish regalia. Loving you, loving life and ready for anything. Turning to old masters when I don’t have a clue, songs from the cemetery when there’s nothing better to do, yes, punching up the pulse to a lively arpeggio, ascending off a decline and here I sign. – KatYa
How happy we
become
with friendship
books
and tombstones
See
We need not much for
contentment
In the cemetery the stones
Each an introduction to another character for our imagining hearts
“He saw that I was sad, I pushed back upon the humidity with my own basic sorrows, and his own pining away and self-contained dreaming of past lives, attuned to my calling out the gods by their names, in the place of the dead put to rest. We could not have missed one another, in silent passing.” -K
K IS SILENT 