one moment you feel little, then large, and in between. some hang on to your every word, while others wouldn’t know you exist. you care about something, you care some more, then the world becomes full with meaning and you couldn’t care more. you could care less.
Forever Stamp Our Hearts
The business was familiar to us all, and could not have polled much worse in a popularity contest. Kinda like one of those Amazon personal online shops, where some thief set up an account and made their first sale but refused to deliver. Rating goes substrata. They may think they will, but they won’t ever sell anything again, on Amazon. The popularity polling chalked up to this: statistically, one person out of twenty, was talking to the porcelain, per diem.
Lemonade-stand politics, on the main thoroughfare. Selling lemons with sugar, and splenda to spare. Just the usual american dream concession stand. Lining of pockets. Confusing law with order. Wearing mops on their heads during nuclear-family civil-war revival fetish skirmishes. Focused on precedents rather than innovative action, when weight of their argument failed to summon any traction.
Who knows exactly what was the mainstay of their business? Maybe talk soup. Whatever carried over long weekends, on the backs of TGI Fridays and long island iced teas. They resorted to shady tactics, hung over a rail. Weekdays, if necessary, they were open for business. Conducted by whomever wasn’t drying out, or in jail. Daydreams of badminton, croqueting through their minds. Only Joan Didion might write a piece, if paid well, to drum up business for these assholes. But she would tell the truth. Everyone loves a scandal.
Who knows how they were still afloat? Hardly IPO material. I guess they had a fan following, from facebook promotion. SEO dabbling, over suntan lotion. Complaints from the business bureau? disregarded completely. They continued to package their spam sandwiches, in platistic wrap. It used to be Saran Wrap, but like pharmaceuticals, the label was too costly. It used to be cellophane. Wow. It wouldn’t take the CFO they could not afford, to tell them to shelve the luxury ticket. Go back to backyards, and orchestras of crickets.
You know your business is failing when you’re trying to finagle backroom deals with the US Postal Service to work out a cheaper shipping plan. UPS and FEDEX wouldn’t even have a conversation. That’s like Lance Armstrong having a conversation with the Tour De France. Or OJ Simpson having a conversation with the NFL. Or Mike Milken having a conversation with the NYSE.
Their public relations campaigns were spectacular. Like Anthony Weiner’s sextexting vernacular. They could run for cover in a second, but they would never disappear. The headlines were too lucrative. Their half-baked proposals awash on the carpet. They could spin their bad press like a champ. They were attempting to turn triangles, into squares. Bogies, into eagles. Who knows what was par for the course anymore? They convinced themselves of their own relevance. Their substandard practice had fallen below basements, and washed far downshore the glacier. Their MTV cribs became archaelogical digs.
The slave labor pool of interns fueled their quiet ascension. Their fans were fanatic, unsubsidized, wallowing. The swallows in the trees looked down, swallowing. Witness to an outlying mob-like destructo-con. Another promotion party with no compass at all. Rushing in on August with stale promotions for fall. Dropping what would never pass for science, to the kids in the halls.
Another american dream concession stand. Barely legal and belly up, with copyright infringement parade-style tactics. They had no protection from themselves. Not even prophylactics.
In the meanwhile all that is required of us, is to keep that punk attitude @ level main street. Not flaunt it. People get the shit wrong. People don’t understand (punk). They need some help, probably. Punk isn’t insulting, until it’s insulted. Punk isn’t violent unless its backed up against a wall, facing a violent death by censorship and suppression. Parental controls gone control freak, sometimes. Afraid their kids might turn punk on them, no! There’s a local punk show at the bowling alley, don’t go! like skid row. Punk is so far from that, I swear. Punk is not drunk or distancing itself from the life. Punk is life!
Punk is life.
In your face, maybe but not necessarily. Defensively perhaps. But when embraced and believed in, every punk is a mother-loving gift to the culture. A shooting star across the international waters divide. A high def play in your mono nucleosis. A comicon chameleon. A standout from the crowd, with flavor. A vintage black on chalk white heat streets. A friend to the end, when you are lucky enough to have one.
I’m not trying to get anyone to find a rare flower. I just think folks should give a punk a break. Give a punk some bottle water, if you see one. At noon, under electric in bucktown, Chicago. You cannot miss us. The black on white dream. The hairstyle to die for. Rhinestone and leather on a curb. Not even smoking. And there when it counts, in the madness of main street, the punks come down from the wells of the stairs, to help set shit straight.
Ready to exacto knife the badness, the pseudo fake-ass pathetic sadness. So obvious and a sore sight, to be washed off the street. The punk takes it on. The punk got your back, maybe, if you at least try and understand. You won’t be sorry, unless you apologize. Some day you may even come to relate. Because all that is asked is that you just represent. That means be yourself in the most yourself of the sense. In a pure play fingerprint identification of compatriot kinda way. Let your people and mine know that we exist, and support ourselves in the realization that we are not alone, in the difficult reality of our minds.
Every change is painful. Every push gets pushed back hard, and yeah, the pushback itself must get pushed aside in a tai chi kinda way, using the energetics of the situation in a natural way so that the force of the truth is preserved. The flavor of the night is working class punk. Cause it requires great effort with little apparent return. But well worth working toward. And so greatly appreciated by those who have such character as those in common with that uncommon and dramatic and seemingly inappropriate flare, ie, those like us. And we recognize one another, one way or another. We cannot always call upon the courage we have, but we must try, again and again. Every change is painful. And what do we do in the streets is our business. Social media yearns for our currency.
We don’t have to celebrate our connection by way of tattoos or cranium collisions or non-furtive glances, but we will if we want. Cause we have nothing to hide. We will show our tits to it. We will throw a picnic in its honor. We will break out in song for it. We will be our own amplifiers. In the midst of whatever wave of rock and roll, trend, or currency. We are at once the life of the street and the death of the dying. And you can be, too. You can be, too.
But hey, this is all just my half-jaded half-faded, semisweet opinion. Love it or hate it or like it or not. Plus one it or flag it or share it to tumblr. It’s in our best pinterest. Manhandle it, juice it, and tear it apart. See how it ticks. Pawn it, for sure. Do what you want, and just do it, for real. Drop it like a bad habit and archive it now. Or ask yourself why, Katya? and who? when or how? Whatever you do, just do it, please do. So do it, please do. And thank you, sincerely, thank you. Thank you.
-Katya 08/13 – http://www.katyamills.com
Then as life goes you find you get into something so completely, your persona, you know, what you do, maybe it’s also your purpose. You are flooded by it, simply deluged by something no matter how big or small, valuable or cheap, honest or sold… then you look around and find that many people know more than they let on, maybe more than they think they know anyway. Maybe they act like they know. Maybe they know how to act like they know. Maybe they know nothing. Maybe they know they know nothing.
Maybe you’re in trouble. Maybe in need of ssris or deficiency restorative vitamin shots. Maybe you need a friend. Maybe you have been befriended, but befriended’s not enough. Maybe you must be be witched. Maybe you need to eat a sandwhich. Maybe you need a who, what, when, where, or which? Maybe you do not know how. Maybe you tipped a cow. Maybe you need to stuff your face with facebook friends. Maybe not.
Did you include your exclusive in your earthquake kit? Tape your affirmation tape to your thigh? Or maybe they have been overdone, your fears and worries.What if theres nothing the hell wrong with you, anyway? Just experiencing lots of feelings, every day, just feeling your way into life? What if good news ceded from a thorough understanding? What if you can take those worries and put those fears in the archive; zipped, compressed, silenced.
You become salt.You become larger than your sediment trail. You travel horizontal, vertical, and your journey loses steam but gathers momentum. You are way off track. The meaning increases strength on the y-variable continuum. The x-variable gets jealous and steals percentage. The z-constant puts x in chex. Accepts no substitute. Tastes best with y and x. Don’t ask why, go on to the next.
Truth with truth. A wholesome meal. More than a steal. Always relative, sometimes changing, hard to define, exacerbating cultures dis ease, serves her right, culture! With a side of yogurt for acidophilus contagion. Served on a platter to memorialize the cajun. Always tryin to come off as ‘fine’. Fucked up, insane, numb, emotionless. Probably headed to the liquor store to check out again on wine. Achilles heel you cant smother under that blanket of persona perfecta you present to the world…gotta be your shaking hands.
You’re Shaking hands– with your divine.
By Katya W. Mills
This is dedicated to the eighteenth bitch i met
by Katya W Mills
Her props preceded her. She was basically dictated over by her fucking props. No joke. I will bite your beats! she announced to the world. She came into the world as truth, got spat out as fiction. HTML underlay all her diction.
Wait, let’s react more slowly, like formation of rust after a rainfall. Slow down our pace. Curb all our progress. That bitch was on fire, like ice. Well, not that fucking hot even. Breakneck Banana slug pace. Break out your fuckin’ mace. Spray her like you mean it! Her accessories are a tugboat and some backup singers rockin’ granite over her lip-synch. Her shows are perfomed on skates, in a skating rink. She’s on thin ice and she knows it. Her toe socks are counterfeit.
There’s such thing as a deadline, bitch. Uncross your buns and feel your tits. You need a media moment or your history. A none hit wonder if you’re lucky. Zero airplay. Audience captive. Held up like hairspray. You’re as close to urban as Truckee. Census 2010 was sixteen thousand, like the crowd you hold hostage. When you open up shows like sardines, canned and caustic.
Every night they get xuded just to feel numb, you’re semi-entourage. Wasted on air guitar broomsticks copped from somebody’s garage. Just to feel numb. You’re shows are best absorbed best by the deaf, blind and dumb.