5 to 25

what a world 

where @ 5 years old you are mostly 

brilliant and when you hit 25

you know exactly 

nothing   

#katyamills

impossible unique

I can love you
seven. eight
days a week
our love
in / of
impossible
unique

regenerates
the snake

a nation
beneath
the lake

a question mark formed
around the life form
inside of us

thirty-two seconds
to unconditional

a timeless future awaits
spirits on dates
drifting down rivers
of corrugate
glue

heartbleed city
who knew

zero
balanced
degenerative

yearning for the night
predawn of artificial light

candles. burning
lifetime supplication
in / of oxygen

fall asleep breathing
in / of love
impossible unique

not the same old narrative on a fog bank overdrawn
yawn

take all the pictures
marry them silently
passionately

take all the i’s (before e’s)
teach them selfless living

strange to suddenly see
receipts of deceits returned
to the store

strange!
impossible unique

strange / dear god!
so suddenly free
impossible
unique

no longer above
no longer below
candle wax flow in
and of love

black denim daisy dukes (subsidized surveillance mix)

i was out there facing you and the world. through a portal i chose. nonlinear travel into the membrane of a postmodern club. on a bright near-life evening experience out. to subdue the indoor perry mason addiction tv blues. subdue with dub and sweat and light and you. to be overcome with the light of the darkness. you night owls, you know. kinda like a blindness toward the runway descent. looking  to land. hoping to avoid catastrophe and chain reaction seated screaming affairs. i do not like to fly. not even in my dreamscapes. like some of you. unlike the rest. and somewhat casually dressed. like always. no formality, out there facing the usa big city nights, at this time in recent memory. i will tell it to you as unencumbered as possible. hope you don’t mind getting it raw like this. with or without punctuation, paragraph, or other accoutrements. i like to call it liberated. shorthand-like. abbreviated, but def not lazy. def not. no deliberations. no hesitation. pushing my speech out of the nest. opening another chapter of free thought. typed out. no hype. typed out. no ribbon. no tape. red, white,  or blue. untaped, out on the wire. out on the net. without a net. full on frontal nudity. the air, brushed aside. the moon drawing the tide. the tenses got tense. tensile. disappeared out on some plank i made for them to walk. eat shit and die, i said. they didn’t hear the verb at the end of that sentence. they will not. they won’t. and wherever words drown down the slow pull of gravity underwater, they are as inaudible as the world dipped  in hyrdrogen cannot be heard.  the air dipped in hydrogen. a nice thing. i can hear myself think. i can pause and take a drink. drink the air and its free. like i thought this post was. like i thought my thoughts were when i shared them. like i prayed and hope my life was here in the states. the country. the place i reside. the vip lily lounge pad from the dangers around me. the darkness. the dark waters. giving me the premo. the premium democratic freedom. fuck if i haven’t paid for it! this stream of life that carries me on a plush pillowtop eggcrated fuzzy boombox of elastic sound and fury. i could stand up in the madness. i could leap off the stage into it. i would feel fingertips massaging the backs of my long legs. my caboose would later tell rolling stones in the post show interview how seriously it felt touched. my black denim daisy dukes got backside bankrolled by princes and treated to marigold sugar candy and treated like queens.  Singlehandedly accelerated and driven to pole position. all my confidence safely locked up in the muscle. usa club scene. protecting my confidentiality with a simple dance step to the left ,or cut to the right. or billy jean my way down the glass lit floors. three hundred watts of white light. a couple hundred pounds of black and white heat. all the onlookers fell back with their cash in hand. struck by the collision of lady’s night in the theatre grande. Maxell tapesque wind driven back in gale force, to cock block a stalker. with a hurricane eye, to allow in an admirer. or a gentle game of verbal chess, to challenge a so-called friend. those who were there to do what i said, became visible (and quite helpful). see i just needed some help to get my truth across. needed your help to brita filter out all the fluoride and dilute toxins in the mineral water of my mind. to goldpan my fucking stream of consciousness bitch. like my friend Viva reminded me on the phone it’s alright to be a bitch. to push back against the bullshit. the whole world is helping us now. check the newswires, you’ll see. because clearly we have subsidized an nauseating affair in our nation. clearly the nsa has strapped a probe on and given us free colonoscopies, with a search warrant. it is more than kinda upsetting. we paid for it. we asked for it once, but got it forever. we did not check for the expiration date. it did not have one. a National Surveillance Archive the size of the lone star state, processing all communications everywhere. domestically and internationally. coveting my metadata and yours. digital forensics will haunt us in the future.  any and all off the cuff remarks we made over text, skype, on outlook or gmail, in our blogs, on our cellulars – is all being processed and audited and red-flagged if necessary. excavated and highlighted, in the low light of some intelligence agency analysts daily debriefing. the question mark has scythed the exclamation point. i will be lucky to make it out with my metaphors. intact. analgesic. in the half-light of the trance. the serenity of the dance. between me and my freedom of speech or silence alike. privacy never made it to the door. because she was already holed up straight squatting in the vip lounge. with the 360 degree view of the dancefloor. with the two way unclouded lead crystal glass floor downloaded and secured to the scenery. profound. delicate. profound plus. glass bubbles, built to shatter. hey, that’s autoglass. it beads. no matter. our big city club scene. over a decade into the new millenium, shines. solar panels recycle the light. shafts appear and strobe out before our very eyes. maybe we need the electric current. maybe i had to plug into the dotcom sitcom to see it. maybe it started the clock on my energy bill. may be pushing time into analytics. maybe space jammed in the eye. maybe gelatinous. to the very fibers of our being. maybe i didn’t care. maybe you do now. maybe we will tommorrow. all i know is what i think snowden knew when he short-circuited his life as his life was. by uncovering what he was made to do, the way he has.  this subsidized surveillance shit needs to end. acid drop it into the clubs and put it in white light and acid wash jeans. and surveil it.

Katya Mills 07/13  @

blurred bits and waves by K

katyamills.com

the collective, politically-based idea factory (and the rubix cube, on wheels)

Culture! On the rise. On the thoroughfare of decline. How much a paradox, culture. Always. But why? This became the question for the intelligentsia and the intelligence community to unravel, or turn and grease and turn through slippery hands and minds and collective politically-based idea factories in all its holographic glory so to cover all possible aspects and leave no stone unturned between heaven and all hell;

touchscreens by iphone

mapped by google

imax projected

rubix cube on wheels

virtual pac-man (on miss pac-man)

codified

doublemint, latex-sprayed, triple helix, malleable, homeland security shookdown, std- proofed, double your fun, confessional-sanctioned, pope-approved, double your pleasure, avatarian recreational.  Yes. Tasty technological treats borrowed from the highest ranking military and intelligence officers’ quarters somewhere in death valley, near a secret desalination plant airlifted by drones from Dubai in the middle of the night many moons ago, just so many unknown miles from the alien docking pads to earth, drowned out by the lights and sounds of the postmodern resurrected Las Vegas metropolis. And vehemently disowned by the Administration. Yes. Tasty technological treats, tax-appropriated out the yingyang circa 2001, handled by the freshest natural born citizens with the cleanest slate records and very possibly robots or droids or blowfish poisoned, shellacqued zombies-4-freedom

USA – genotyped

anthropologically- profiled

fingerprinted and man-handled

cornea-scanned

debugged and rooted, microchip implanted, samsung manufactured, cloud-protected, supercomputer hardcopied…with an added feature of complete and unlimited playback *  of all lawfully yet non-transparently gathered fresh NSA data, mined exclusively from you and that dude who lives next door to you** until cancelled at anytime.***  Guaranteed current and fashionable (though maybe emaciated or soundbytten or heroin chic) and filtered of  all administration-branded nonsense (including the trade journal or democracy-when? kind). They performed such wizardry from their desks and satin stitched loveseats on backyard balconies jutting out of  their ivy hideouts. Or else, for those with the proper clearance who were constantly mobile, through remote desktop controls permeating clouds with passwords and repititious ID scans in the nondescript (and unsuspecting) offices of community college mudhuts across the country, or, in cases where time got crunched,  free wifi local coffeeshop hotspots created and protected easily for short periods of time across the grid. Always cloaked, though purportedly transparent. Wherever.

Unfortunately at times the two were inseparable. The circus and the intelligence wrapped up trying to find meaning in it. Increasingly ineffectual… all this was made quite a bit more restless and anxiety-prone inside the collective heads of the pushing 350 million population, where the diminishing rate of return

of dopamine

of serotonin

of norepinephrine

by the heavily taxed 99% of neurotransmitters getting fucked with****, under auspices of heavy pharmaceutical rotation,  toward an approaching parallel yet still tangential moving target of drain and leaking of energies on the vertical axis of collective coping mechanism function. Which translates to something really potentially ominous on the horizon, which you and me and your mom (and the Beverley Hillbillies, too) within our greater cultural context, could not , cannot, and may never be able to afford. So Sorry! Please move aside and make room. Next?!

* for 30 days, on American taxpayer credit, to be charged $9.99 thereafter a month for continued use, if necessary or so desired

** ‘you ‘ denotes any US citizen anywhere, on or off American soil. See the Patriot Act for further reading

***in a flex plan catered to current political unrest akin to arab spring but potentially closer to home

**** just like us

by Katya Blue

k in denim by k

, 07/13  katyamills.com

snowed in (and data mined) -iii)

Being snowed in had a magical quality. The sun hit the snow and reflected light to warm the air. The icicles formed in and around the rain gutters as the snow melted off the roof. Some large enough to knock you out. I remember kids trying to lure other kids they didn’t like below these large icicles. Keep them there with some sweet, long-winded filibuster of a story. Wendy Davis style. 

I often wished for the larger stormfronts to come over us those winters. I loved the early morning moments when my brother and I hung by the alarm clock radio, listening to the announcements of school cancellations. Waiting. Holding our breath. And the incredible feeling when our school was announced.

A blizzard can be a joyous occasion. You feel protected. Insulated. You don’t really know what’s going on around you, and you don’t care. Neither does anyone else. Sure, after a few days like this, you might get a little stir crazy, like Jack Nicholson‘s character in the Shining. The blizzard of ’78 was one such opportunity. I was too young to remember much, but where I lived the snow banks surged to eight feet high. School and work were all called off with a one-liner over the radio. All recreational events, suspended. Excepting procreation. The zoo was closed. Or just confined to your own home.

Imagine, no contact with the outside world. Power lines down. Incommunicado. You lit candles off gas stoves to get around your house. All was so quiet, inside and out. Introverts threw a party and no one came. Everything stood in stark contrast to the usual. We built fires. Watched the light and shadow play. Rituals were fresh and wonderful, except shoveling snow. Alot of people who had become plants over time in their homes (planted by the television),  lost their lives trying to shovel their way out of their homes during blizzards. Heart attack city.

With television disabled, loving, mindful family interaction was again possible. For some. Hateful families got to go back to hating. Stress often took a back seat to more significant feelings. What could you do? Nothing. You were snowed in. You had to feel. You got an opportunity to feel. This could last for days! I must admit that, after a while, I wanted the old thing back.

I am grateful to have safety and security of my home, my village, my city, my state, my country, my world. insulated from the wars being fought across that Atlantic, across the Pacific. My love of country is easy to see, in the transparency of my gratitude for what my country has given me. I have been free to follow my heart and my passion and my conscience to great lengths. Yet still, I can see it slipping sometimes. The great freedoms we have been blessed with in the USA. Homeland security is one thing. But sometimes, I must admit, I want that old thing back.     (…tbc)

by Katya Mills,  katyamills.com  06/13

add infinitum, subtract perpetuity

There was something (nondescript perhaps) imminent. The humans knew this much. The animals knew more. The plants belonged. The earth produced. The liquid underearth strata created this nondescript something imminent. All we humans got on our sentient radar was imminence. So issues of much less importance trumped(and trumped easily) this great and possibly horrible imminent situation.  The animals tried to give us the dl down low hello.  Then, when the time had come, scurried and leapt to low ground and away from us.

We were certainly high on something or another. Chemical romance. Oxytocin. Norepinephrine firing like fresh clean oiled and polished cannon balls barreling towards some forgotten target. High on whatever we want so bad we must get get get! The animals strategic movement was benign unremarkable herd drift. Maybe a couple of Britishand Norwegian migration trackers packed up and left home with docudrama on their minds and euros in their funded pockets. They just preferred to spend three quarters of the year away from all humanity as well. Their occupations afforded them an easy excuse.

the imminence

Some called them spiritual. Some called them famished. Either way, whatever was about to happen was not to be anticipated by any of us, no matter their rank, IQ, gender, sexual orientation, race, attitude, level of curiosity, ability to regulate emotional lability, nature, continuum of looks (ie beautiful to cannot look), allostasis (areas of life failure to keep balance in the graphic equalizer of experience).

For suddenly like a shift in winds, all of them vaulted up the grassy hills rising up either side of the valley.  They peaked the crest of the ridge, and remained awaiting encrypted instructions under the appropriate sky signed authority. Cloaking had been activated, with coordinates unknown and unreported and otherwise….never happened, aka Unreleased from and to perpetuity, subtract infinitum.