frying eggs on your solar panel. over easy, lighten up. downtown.

Creative writing from the website of independent author Katya Mills

Very 2009 of her! reductio carbon footprint. cheerled the new USAdministration. sent to the wax museum her (former) self-medicated depression. Shes got plastic and owes a couple of Gs. so what? she pays her taxes and rolls the finest trees. rockin hella retro sweatbands, she does. and not just for show, dont you know. wipes her brow as she walks high and low, in and out, everywhere she walks without a doubt. but not down the dead end redbull and vodka road. her home is not the home of the so not pertinent anymore (though its everybodys sometimes, her compassion confides). no! Today 2009, she represents with the special twist. Not to be dismissed as some ready-to-wear stamped kiss. pret-a-utiliser! She works it, she is it! check her hella fine ass in yoga (no pilates), on the bus, at work, at play, hot sex, cannot misfire her miss retro action! calculating tips outside the Tip Calculator Faction. She real not just Fiction. Shes honest not reaction.

She is retro eighties unrefiner. a distant nod to fashion, (too close like heroin chic will kill the passion). she plays it for show. metropcs she prefers to iphoners-in-tow. Rock Steady imperfectionism, she becomes. Her stomach prefers colored discs of old school Tums. Real sugar to corn syrup. Shes granular not sappy. Not sad when she’s happy. Her antennae pick up signals for her, tellin her all those things on demand. She recoils at material, shouts leave me! suck sand! The finale tapped out by her friend the one girl band. She is for liberation of rental space in her mind. (Multitasking is afterall the daily grind). she has the T9 text system (hush hush!) in her arsenal. Patches in your chronic back pain with fentanyl (diverts the pain, unless its hers to own). She gets her fill. She can be a mess. hardly ever wears a dress. Trips up the sliding skechers, who slide down pill hill.

And voila! here she is! with a glimmer of sweat. taking your matte finish to glossy (no extra charge). Her ego, just right, not too small or too large. Today shes in motion. The episode in her closet (walk in type, full length mirror, window…jealous much?) was to master her new lash blaster* (*props to covergirl) from the chain pharmacy checkout girl (namtag Esther). She gives credit where due. Her favorite color Royal Blue. After she mastered lashblaster, she felt hunger. She met her friend in interspatialicious. He ordered her up something pre-delicious: the basic 2 egg (over med), 2 hb, 2 sp (sausage patty), e.m. (angelican muffin, a religious experience) and oj. she thought well to think ahead to meet him interspatially. The plan had been physical, but slow and lethargic. Not like online where all was a quickness. By pre-ordering so, she made up for phsyical. So he might wait less long, her mission was critical. Thanks given to her blood flow (cerebral), courtesy of tourniquet: tension of thought became (level), via blue postal service knit.( Meaning: her hat made her think clearly).

This hat she procured from a mom and pop army navy store (was in mentioniables). So dont get her twisted a chain lover. That’s pre-2008: meaning insentienable. She was orthodox ‘being past that’, and her faith was ‘alot’. – K


1 stone

one stone. two birds

a gun is the coldest moulded steel you ever put in your hand, holds a darkened chamber where living death sleeps, full of powder, ready in a puff of smoke and recoil to take two lives in one second. the other one won’t die by the bullet.

talk show generics -ii

He was demure in between binges. She was the polliwog in his flying fish fry, hiding under the curtain in the fringes. They were mutuals who secretly willed a corruption, playing hide-n-seek in a hobby lobby of manipulations. She got busy with telemarketers on the home line, keeping them guessing in a cold steep run up of daytime, followed by the evening news, the blackouts and hysterics. The whole enchilada was ready made for talk show generics. Not her. People like her.


faux froid

La Verite was nowhere to be found. Faux Froid took over the town. A chill cast over the roads – trees – dirt – homes – faces – ankles – toes. Toenails soft as reflections bent around the way, only to be bent back around. Compensation had long ago — long long ago, you know — fled the sapling exchange-post.


the reunification

When i dream i dream of loving you through it all and you loving me, cause the world can be processed cheese and nothing nice on a sesame roll of dice. i still want you maybe five or ten times a day while you’re away, you call me and i call you and we find ourselves free and working citizens, no game, no fame, just sunning on the ordinary sands, paid in sand dollars and buttering the skin with oils. i got afraid when you wanted to move in with me. i am so used to living alone and rather like it. but last night when reading a story about some fugitives in Germany, i realized that behind the heinous crime spree were people in desperate need to be loved. they found one another in that predicament i suppose. broken families, broken economies. a good deal of sadness turned to hate in the heart of a child who knows not what to do with it. violence comes of a hateful heart if you do not learn the alchemy. nothing excuses the criminals their crimes. i saw a window into their lives as they borrowed identities from friends and secured small apartments for the three of them to live. they played video games and the woman had a cat. they had romances between them and accepted it. they drank wine and read indoctrinating books. they took holiday on the Baltic Sea. for whatever intention people come together, good or bad, ideological or not, the deeper intention seems to me to be the coming together itself, in a world which has crumbled around them. the Berlin Wall went down not long before them, and they were seeing the West with fresh eyes, while the West was seeing them for profit in a market. clearly reunification was gonna be arduous and exciting. if only we all could come together around a good cause. but it cannot be. the point is the coming together, the bond. life energy and life’s fulfillment circulate through the bond, the comradery. the intention matters less. such is the way of the world. the crime spree went on the better part of a decade, the National Socialist Underground. they didn’t always take credit for their atrocities but they were a known terrorist cell and informants (they call ‘assets’) all around. but the intel was weak and the investigation poor. the families of the victims, victimized. finally the two men were dead in the back of a camper, after robbing a bank. the woman would be hunted and turn herself in. she is imprisoned to this day. Beate. she is alone again. i am so used to living alone and rather like it. i got afraid when you said you wanted to move in with me. but after i saw the movie and read the book, i really cannot stop thinking about you and me, coming together for all time, as time passes away from us.


Journal # 11.09.16

The map of the states, the topography of the election was blood red and rising last night. I thought it looked prettier with the interstitial lakes of blue we saw in 2008 and 2012. In Manhattan there was a glass ceiling, unbroken, and through it one could see the many dejected faces below, their leader missing in action. Somewhere deep in the everglades she lost, by a fraction. Today the proper treatment is falling in line. Come together and act united, the states. I know where I’m gonna start… I will be heading over to Susan B. Anthony’s grave with my wire brush, to remove all those – I VOTED! – stickers from her tombstone.

the velveteen rabbit

Cold. Blue dawn.

The velveteen rabbit was hobbling up the road with one button eye just a hangin’ from a thrice restitched socket, his nerves just a hangin’ by a thread. He looked back every time he heard a sound. The two lane highway was just ahead. He was dragging a broken leg behind him, and his cotton tail was blackened by mud. He had dropped himself off the side of the bed, after hours wrenching himself out from the little girl’s grip. He had dreamed only of this moment in time, for many years now. With what stuffing he had left for brains. There were gashes and cuts where the dogs and cats had bit and clawed him. Even the wretched maid who always put on an careless face when left alone to do her dirty work, had been known to throw his entirety into the washing and drying machines. With bleach! Dear God!

Yet none of the abuse he suffered by those to whom his life was tangential, could ever compare to the heartless depth of the one who loved him! His child companion. She loved him past living, and his experience was a perpetual dissociation to the heights of the ceiling (where her thick little pudgy arms could not reach him), looking down. Watching his limp carcass get dragged around and squeezed violently. Covered by her great human weight, every time she rolled over in her sleep. Oh hell on earth!

His fur rubbed down to the quick.

He reached the highway and held out a broken thumb. Someone in a mid-twentieth century Volvo slowed down then pulled to the side to pick him up. Sweet freedom! With all his might he pulled himself together, and hopped on up and into the car.

No sooner had he got up onto the back seat leather, when a young boy, about the same age as his child companion, only maybe a little younger and more full of reckless abandon, grabbed him about the neck in terrifying fashion, and reached over him to shut the door closed. Then peered closely at him. Fingered his shivering velveteen residual. The car pulled back onto the highway, and the boy then began to show immediate disinterest, and lovingly flicked away at his single button eye.