1984

the song hit the radio 

we ran for many blocks 

like someone left our cage open we

caught our breath in an army navy store

it was 1984. you held a pocket knife

under my neck. gimme all you got

my face turned red and hot

i dropped an elbow in your gut you 

were my best friend

#katyamills

go on. be infinite

delivering packages on a bike

i am pumping legs

exhaust through my nostrils

the city a living breathing monster

the cars are out to kill us

flat on my back 

staring up between skyscrapers

blood trickling down the side of my mouth

i am no longer finite i am

a strange peace

#katyamills

(meditation on a story i am writing)

action on the street. two thousand some.

the women with newport smooth hundreds walk the sidewalks, smoke sweeps into their lungs. heads dizzy with the chemicals they swing their upper bodies down over the bus stop benches, regretfully, and around go the hips, puff their lips out at the strangers, push middle fingers out at dangers. the drunks duck into meeting halls, intoxicated by sweet anonymity, the junkies escape the blistering heat of the valley, prayers and those who care, or want to care, inside open doors. tears of misery. tears of joy. the women born in the forties and fifties come out with abandon, pushing upper ages into push up bras with powder, in triple digit heat. the older they are the stronger. the men have become very kind and sugar sweet with old age. out with their canes, in wheelchairs, on walkers. ripened and unashamed to be weak after lifetimes of having to be strong. the heat has the strip malls and parking lots cooked, melting tar into rivulets dripping down where the rainwater is supposed to take the oils, the wheels they are spinning and change direction to avoid an ugly truth in the road, the film drips off of grills embedded in the pavement, the fishtails of boys in cars dragging the streets take water in through the gills. the ones been around the block stand there talking, don’t need to go around it again, the quiet ones come out to listen to the talkers who are talking to anyone and no one, the young ones quiet and listening but not for long, the young girls holding the hands of the young men and young women, smile and kick up the dust, the young boys are satellites who blush. the workers are working, the players playing cards, the surveyors, construction, on the job, hammering and drilling and surveying, connecting wires, hard hats on hard heads, staring at a soft ass passing by on the street, hard, hammering and measuring and shouting over the trucks, wishing they was talking to some honey, sugar sweet. the smokers are kicking snipes into the street, newports and kools and camels, dehydrated, rolling embers off the end of a half-smoked marlboro, rollies, talking shit, looking, the girls gossiping and looking and laughing a little, the men boasting and smiling, the punks smoking reds like joints. real estate agents taking smoke breaks on the hour. waitresses cursing into their breaks, called back in by a supervisor or line cook to get their asses inside and grab that fucking marinated mountain trout with rice and green beans. they sashay into the air conditioned dining rooms to their tables. waiters incensed by ten percents, dropping cans and butts on cold cement. then out on the streets, free, after they all punch out.  #katyamills

sky

i am inside and i wanna get
out. i gotta go
get into a fix

life
gives no sanctuary
but in the
living. what i got
i created. i gave it! your will
was mine! i snatched it back
i clung to it

then it disappeared
i was alone. i got older
and could not believe
so much time had
passed

i wanna go out! get lost in
a cloud i am
inside. i’m not afraid to run barefoot
cut up alot in a city
scape

i oughta. this whole scene is dangerous
soft factory air makes me. i
am inside out

fuck it. gimme a map
the closest emergency
exit. i will take it!

break the controls off bad
and i gotta get out
of my head and the news
is so terrible

not another screen
i need something to believe
in. the sky

city and music of

was america was
chicago was life worth
working for ina cross
road. you and me and any one
fought through the seasons
the vocals the
exhaust
the steam of whistling
industry
i could feel the touch
the warmth beneath your voice
in a cold world

a hot world
you could shout you could scream
you would have to
to be heard
then the aftermath the streets
the faces ina diner
ina hard won heartfelt
part of town

mocha skin tones made by
sun and genes
cream and sugar and
coffee black
where noise is music
toasting broken hearts and
dishes and bottles. you woke me up
i can feel you today thousands
of miles away

i can laugh
i can cry ona dime ina city
and the music of
noise
i was and wasn’t
there