killer.7

how powerless
modern life has made us
giving us all that we want

we take up guns
and knives and
our personal
weapons of mass
destruction

then we
RAN
to the
NRA

for caliber
for freedom
to bear arms
to feel powerful
in the face of
burglary
assault
accosted
by fear

and what has become
of us?

consumers
victims

hunters
hunted
how

power

less

killing.6

the socioeconomic sponges up all my blood so the floor can be polished for the next disenfranchised video game glazed hunting cap dick whose girlfriend refused him a blow job on his 18th birthday, to step to the counter with capital one credit and a jaundiced beef jerky soul. cash registers. a semi-automatic. america invests in my demise

dream sequence

In this dream I found myself in a stranger’s house with you, and we were set up by two thieves to take the fall. We had nothing in our possession yet we started running. You  ran far ahead of me. I could see them coming for us and hollering after.

I wanted to run but my entire body was set in slow motion. I had a terribly helpless feeling! I moved up a long strip of land, connecting yards, and saw a puff of smoke and heard them shoot you. I never felt so hopeless.

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.

young

we are young

The days run away and I cannot do anything about this, I do not understand my age. I suppose we are all very young, even the very old, and this appeases the cruel god who comes out from time to time to command us away, life changes and we are not welcome anymore…
you are done with me and i am done with you and all our messy nonsense of two thousand three hundred forty-five yesterdays. I cannot say what came over me but i remember crying when i knew i was no longer gonna be protected or saved. I was to be blooded and charged with my Appetite For Destruction and to carry all the old Lies again, in rare form; they coulda made a fine killer of me, at the academy…
what I want to say is, losing you, this was one of the saddest of neverending losses, what i wanna say is sorry. and you have no need to forgive me unless it helps you — please — i think i forgave myself but i wonder — when i hurt — thinking of all the times you told me fuck off  

before i finally did

journal

Journal # 07.20.16

My new blanket, sea green, provides comfort against the squalls of the world. Wrapped in soft waves of blended cotton, I am hard to convince. Maybe it’s the celebrity twitter fiascos and heat waves, the political conventions. Maybe it’s the people who let me down. Maybe it’s the many gods, the guns, exploitation and fear. Maybe it’s my great expectations. Endorsements bought and traded and ringing in the ears, racial tensions expansive in the cities in the nights. How we go about reaching out for our implosives. Some of us are down on our luck.

 I am up on my luck and not scared to get close to someone in need. Outside of car troubles, empty wallets, degradations, and syncope spells… loneliness awaits the life of living on couches in cars on corners. Nobody should ever feel left completely alone. If all I can offer is my company, kind words and home cooking, this is what I shall give. No one oughta feel no one cares.
I pray that you will make it and come back to us like Spring.  For now I fall back to my routine, preservation of sanity, and settle down to read of the exploits of pioneers attempting to cross the Sierra Nevadas two hundred years ago to reach our sacred, sweet valley. Thank god for family and community, and cheap, blended cottons. I had just enough fight in me, in Walmart, to open mom’s palette beyond earth tones.

something great

There’s something going on. I can feel it. As I carefully position the linked hearts floormats in my car. The floor is now hidden beneath a trail of pink hearts in the corner of a clean black fairway.

There’s something going on. I can feel it. As I squegee my windshield and f@ck it – my whole car. Too tired to locate a carwash. There’s a drought anyway. Call it ‘saving water’.

Palestine is burning. I’m saving water. But I would donate the entire Sierra Nevada snowpack to Palestine. What’s left of it.

The snow melt.
Palestine.

I’m trying to reach my friend Sunshine’s house in West Sacramento. There’s a protest blocking the street. They want to end police brutality. The bullhorn is leading the crowd in a cheer:

Hands Up!
Don’t Shoot!
Hands Up!
Don’t Shoot!

There’s something going on. Spreading like wildfire across the Internet. Your kids are dying to go see.

Some innocent black kid got murdered in Missouri, the Gateway to the West. Some guilty cop shot him six times. And twice in the head. Not all cops are bad news. But this one is.

Hands Up!
Don’t Shoot!

I can feel it. Something going on. I’m driving on a bridge. High above Sacramento River. Water looks so yummy nice. Against the high noon valley summer drought. There’s a little house with a shingled roof being propelled slowly down the river. Not a houseboat. A house.

I can feel it. So lucky to live here in this peaceably violent land. USA. Individuals with guns will never be controlled. That’s why they got guns to begin with.

So lucky. My friend sunshine. Like a sister to me. She’s excited. She was given a large canvas, and now she’s quitting her job.

She’s gonna paint a woman with ribbons in her hair. Stitched into the canvas. Her daughter’s middle name is Anais.

The woman will have razor blades hanging from the ribbons hanging from her hair, and around her head a mandala.

Like a halo?
No, not a halo. More like an aura.

I can feel it.
I can already feel it.
It’s gonna be something great.
Something really great.
Like sunshine.

poison. the girls

might sound crazy but i was holdin on to a memory. of you and me. before all those things happened. ya.

might sound crazy but it was the first week we were together. we were in the old Impala with the flat tan finish. ya. we were gettin high.

you had a baseball cap on backwards like that tomboy from the bad news bears. the original. skinny acidwash jeans and long hair like axl rose circa 1987. Indiana.

i was all my tore up old self. like usual. a taller and possibly skinnier you. bad hair day. like always. no bra. ya. walgreens wool cap spinning around my middle finger.

there we were clear as day in my mind just now. scratchin’ bingo with my switchblade. gettin’ high. wow. must have been twenty ten. just look at us then.

i know it sounds crazy but even with the madness what with the sadness that followed and haunted us so…

god i must be crazy but i long to be back there again with you now. the way the love full of light filled our eyes. the way that you touched me and gave me the chills.

the weight of the eighty impala beneath us. reading our poems aloud and again. feeling the fortune of finding a friend.

oh why?
oh why
    did it all
have to
end?

katya mills © 2014
this is dedicated to k&k

Mental

When you get diagnosed, you get to try on your diagnosis. Although you might have been manic-depressive, now you are bipolar so you go out in the world and feel the two poles, pulling at your mid-section. You can thank your therapist. Your therapist can thank the DSM-4, and other diagnostic materials that helped them reach that conclusion. Or you can get really really mad and tell everybody you’re shrink is trying to label you. Call it libel. Then someone might tell you you have an anger problem, especially if you set their house on fire or went to their school with a gun and started flashing it on people for kicks. You wouldn’t be there talking to them, if you had actually used it. You would be behind bars. Someone else behind bars, or even on the other side of the bars would not be telling you you had an anger problem, then, because it’s a given. They would be telling you stand up, sit down, and running their baton up and down the rails just to piss you off some more. You should feel lucky not to be locked up. I suppose you can thank yourself for not going off the deep end. Or thank your therapist. They are the one who put you on the bipolar meds to control your manic-depression. And they didn’t even know you had an anger problem. Geniuses.