not even a mouse

all through the house I walked, not even myself, looking around like a stranger with a window into the life of some wannabe, I guess it was me,  not desperate just wannabe better I suppose. Wannabe more loving. Wannabe more real. Wannabe more conscious. There are books everywhere and a kindle with many more trapped inside it. Even more in my head. I’m your idea girl. I am yours. You can have me. Wannabe now, all through the house, rolling wheels of swiss cheese, not even a mouse… wannabe me, with or without you.

live long like gingerbread houses

I want to go into stores and have experiences. The people in these stores they are trained to talk to you a certain way. Make you feel special. What if I want to be treated like anyone treats anyone? Then the cashiers can ignore me when I’m trying to check out, make me go and self-check out. If I put something I decided I didn’t want on the wrong shelf, someone might challenge me. Like I’m real again. I could see the workers unpacking the boxes and go and help them and feel good helping. Wow. I wanna go into stores and have experiences, real ones. I don’t wanna exchange money for a receipt and a smile, how degrading! How about we start haggling and trading? I give you this old Madonna CD for that pumpkin pie? I don’t want my experience to be limited to someone kissing my ass, then waiting like a fool for the chip reader to read my chip. Don’t pull out yet. You have to wait. Sorry for the wait. Sign this, sign that. Do you have a rewards card? What kind of perks are in store for us? The ads and the phones are becoming smarter. I’m the customer. I’m always right. I’m never wrong. Gloss me over. Sugar coat me with Splenda. Pump me full of preservatives. Send me out with my gingerbread house. Then I really will feel special. I’ll probably survive the new year, too.

Let your purpose carry you like a gust through darker moments of life, rattling the windows

I will be there
alongside your faith
to hold you
when you get home

We will know
neither day nor night
in our arms
embracing

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what was home

for a while all i wanted was space. and
silence. city sound became punishing,
like the thoughts i had toward myself.
against myself. i hoped for a quiet place,
where i might sit with my self and work
out these difficult fears and feelings
running me down relentlessly.

i hated myself into many panics. i let
myself be used. sometimes the hope
was two negatives would lead a positive
charge. this method was in the end,
mostly madness. i was no good at
chemistry. but i thought i could run a
current across my life.

prayer was ineffectual, in a time of
spiritual deficit. i might try to pray. i was
sincere. it came off bad. i could not often
sit still unless i was terrified or sleeping.
and i wasn’t often either of those.

i could not quiet the city sounds. the
cars, trucks, helicopters, voices yelling
laughing screaming crying. trains.
fireworks. motorcycles. gunshots. car
accidents.

broken glass.

radios, televisions. doors. moving trucks.
dogs, cats, animals. freight loading,
unloading. babies. car tires. speakers.
chains. subwoofers. arguments. fights.
broken glass. screen doors.
ambulances. basketballs. sirens. kids.
deadbolts.

landlords, tenants, junkies going through
withdrawals, laughter, mania. strange
unearthly sounds. manias. depressive
wailings. loud silences in certain bad
places. soundless muted murder. dead
silence. followed by violent storms of
cacophonous cackling and butchering of
the english or other language.

blank loud stares.

i found myself holding my
breath.peeking through keyholes.
wondering if i was next.

the law would come in, or a rent-a-cop.
you could tell by the sound of the walk
who was walking

by

the weight of the belt, the holster, gun,
taser, keys. maybe it was just a maid or
maintenance man.

i was often pacing or waiting for my
number to come up. still distant. still
hoping for a little space. quiet space. my
internal would not have known what to
do with it, though.

maybe push me more violently into
thanatos gulch. or mad river quarry. the
depths of which could not be fathomed
by the human eye.

yes i certainly knew how bad a toll i had
taken, how violently my bell had been
rung, when, long after i let the
burgeoning toxicity overtake me in that
urban nightmare reality

pale and sick and past caring, angry and
helpless to my reactive emotional.sad
and skinny and losing my faith…

god gave me a chance to come up for
air, in a little rented motel room some do
gooder rented me, away from the urban
amorphous ink night. and what did i do?
after jumping for joy? i got so depressed
like never before. i lay down and slept for
two days and three nights…

then got up to such a madness, without
thinking, movement away from that
taciturn moment, quiet little retreat from
my quiet retreat, orchestral movements
in the light, pumping my legs by my feet
on the pedals

screaming silently back to oakland from
richmond, knowing the strange beauty in
another terrible mistake, feeling the
electric storm of old oakland overtake
me, all the cacophonous sounds pooled
into one current

coming across my body

high voltage seizing me all over again.
the smell of homeless teenage angst
wrapping around me like blanket with its
piss warmth mental poverty

addictive, additive recycled air, oozing
with traffic remoulade, parsed with law
enforcement, sprinkled with social
services, crusted with age-old
desperations

i smiled and forgot myself again. lost my
self in the insanity, cause this was home

by K @ katyamills.com

people work better when driven (insane) -viii)

People work better when driven, like rain. Not like nails through plywood. Not like slaves. Nothing narrow. Driven to a point as deep as bone marrow. Where the levee breaks. The point of overflowing. To the point where sanity and reason dead end. Where we may become highly emotional and sensitive. Where we conduct electricity and switch channels, facile (with ease, if you please). Irrational? for certain. Intelligence? Beyond standards. Insane? Well, not sane, in the best of any sense of not sane. A psychosis? Perhaps. Psychotic break? not necessarily. Long past the neurosis? Most likely. Ferocious? Like a tiger. Outlawed? Most definitely, like the wild are outlawed from your tea parties.

unedited

sachomes #1 by k

What american culture seemed to have lost sight of, somehow, somewhere in the past;  was the continuity and emergence that soon comes to pass. That dead end or limit, got taken literally, indeed. Never mind if travel may continue on foot. If left unbound and not institutionalized, unmedicated in some cases, people can get relocate themselves in the land of the lost. What by all appearances looks hopeless, even criminally insane? May find self-remedy, in the realm of the spiritual. The soul has no ordinary bounds, you see. The soul was made for being extraordinary. This is the soul’s inclination.  Past the point of knowing, really nothing is clear. Past the point of comfort, the mapped out area. Past the well worn territory of both mind and body. Past the breakpoint of rpms in your Ferrari. Past familiar. Out of area. Quite impossible, and why? Because part of our nature needs to learn how to fly.

on being hopelessly american… (cross-post off www.katyamills.com)

Cause im american i can blame culture for the disconnect.  Can’t I? Try and stop me. I’m unites states of american. I’m confederation of insults. I’m patriotic beyond hope. I’m guilty of policing. I’m incapable of being anything less than controlling. But I may be less guilty of policing, more guilty of blaming or controlling, i suppose. Only because I am in and of the usa, a victim as much as a loyalist. i have been policed to a T. i have been jailed on false charges which were dropped. I have been scapegoated for things more than a majority were presenting with. i have been cited for marijuana. i have been harassed for self-medicating. i have been judged and accused for crimes i am not capable of committing. I will look you in the eyes but you may wish you hadn’t asked for it. i may look down or away just to concentrate. i am in and of the united states, yet if you really wanna know the truth? i am germanic in heritage. i am Russian in origin. and i don’t mean that’s where i was born. No. but St Petersburg, in the eastern realm? that is where my soul was seeded. I live in california. we call that the west. yet its a couple dozen hours drive from the pacific ocean off western Alaska, where their once was a land bridge which crossed to the far east. So absorb that if you can. Taste the salt in the air from the sea. I did. and i realized i have not gone west like it appears. i have simply gone closer to home. far east.

09.01.11

The truth is confusing, the confusion is disturbing, and reality does not give a damn. My heart holds vacancy for the life of them. and you. Still to attend to the sky in its entirety.                          Sea. The depths grow green to Royal blue. Where all lies over exposeD in a happy residue. Off center in allostasis. From the residual, extract the amplification. Subtract from that all that you already know or believe.  The tattooed kneecap. the hair weave. The eyes tell of suffering behind capri ankles. The wrist-roll up to three quarters a sleeve.                The honesty cannot be found from infusion thereafter. She was left to floats on water boiling. Like a poached egg. Then arises Thick, like crisis in love. Then arises as vapor- Clear

by J Nickel

having it up to here and back down

to the rafters