in my mid-twenties
typewritten pages all around
bottle of whiskey in the freezer
telephone. stereo. Chicago winters creeping through gaps in the window frames
in my head
took a sudden breath i
had forgotten if you don’t
it’s death
spotlight of the swinging arm lamp in its antics
hair on my head frazzled
feeling frantic
would the world ever cosign my imagined
romantic?
#katyamills
they got so busy mixing
and splicing ambient sounds
with hacked lyrics
they could not hear the multi
media metaverse
calling. the rain drumming
thumb wheels thumbin
what a day to be def
#katyamills
the misnomer the slip the drunken
tattoo the shaved head the misaligned
teeth of reactionary fists. leave us the faux pas
to combat these dull and senseless
perfections #katyamills
tiktok the time goes by time
goes by stars gaze into our eyes
never stop never drop keep
pushin along. tiktok cannot
kill this song keep
shinin
#katyamills
the wind picked up this morning and blasted all the spaces, rolling recyclables down and into the street, carrying yesterdays news away. i am awake and listening. community some dream at dawn. i cook up some oatmeal and brown sugar. high speed internet and a chance to reconnect. living well can make you soft and vulnerable but not necessarily weak. that depends on you.
fall the fields arid
the vineyards patched out
from the sky
we worry the wind
we worry the skin of earth
and tree. shed out
and sprawling free
end of night
downtown
i follow the arc of the tip
of your cig.
you damned drunk!
and quietly stamp out
the berry
what if you became we
would the disparity between our worldviews
what made you
you
i would organize
we rode on out to see your cousins down along the river road, into the delta and god was it beautiful, America. dazzling on an autumn afternoon. we paid respects to your mom along the way. the sun would leave the cemetery sky red hot on its descent in the west. i never knew your father was an artist until you showed me his studio deep in the lot, behind the garage. there was a portrait of a beautiful woman on the easel, maybe the beloved in the beloved years? 94 now he lives with sophia the cavalier.
back to wood floors. they are pulling up the carpets now. the orange tree what with its lime hybrid. beginning to bear fruit. we shared baked beans and fried chicken and i listened to his story of coming to this country, up from Mexico, a teenager hoping on some work and a couple hundred dollars to take home. an older man convinced him to hop the freight train and go north to Indio. from there they decided on Sacramento. the man taught him if you dress up a little you can get work easy. he doesn’t know what became of his friend, who got drunk one night and disappeared. that was three quarters of a century ago. old sacramento was a community of migrants.
i wonder about the spirit and where it travels when somebody is no longer around? your dad is a good man. what a life. he’s been through it. and he still gets up and out into the orchard for it. working for more at ninety-four
.
the sun below ground at 4 o’clock
the sky could feel her
runnin in colors off a
glass
some kids got sent back to aisle 5 at the safeway
tryin to buy single coronas off a
six
i was searchin for my simple honeybee
bear and asked around. we found each other
in lucky no.7
across the street turned up 8 ounces
coffee. hot and fierce. not a bad start
for a day
not a bad start at all
stay present and you can handle
anything
K IS SILENT 