careless

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.

american dream concession stand

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.

mousey

‘mouse’ by k

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.

a-z mart -iii) aka you won’t be sorry unless you apologize

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.

kbykyes1

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

Rolling Allostasis, Revisited (http://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

03/13/2013

http://katyamills.com

https://kissilent.wordpress.com

The 18th bitch i met

This is dedicated to the eighteenth bitch i met

by Katya W Mills

katyamills.com

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.

devolver (foo+l=fool, -ii)

Once, a long time ago, before they devolved her

The land was a greater part peace and understanding. None of that hippy crap. I am talking about true serenity. Joyfulness. Free giving like freeware and wifi hotspots with open architectures are today. You understand. That which inevitably will be lost to us. Freedom seems to inevitably cost us. At least 364 days a year.

Back then, things were relatively pagan, without so much rules and laws. Life was muddy, dirty, but somehow the wear and tear of life made us clear. The scuff on the cuff of life, purified us. And she was in our hearts then.  She was sacrosanct. For a single day of the year, sometimes, usually a full lunar eclipse, or a blue moon perhaps, but for one single day we experienced true and wondrous freedom. I do not know how to describe it. I was feeling it in the eastern lands where i lived. St Petersburg, the heart of the greater lands before Moscow became preeminent. St Petersburg is where her heart resided.  The waves of her energy lapped gently into surrounding lands. Washed over the entire surface of the earth, they say.

The truth is this. The paradigm fell into a chasm. They scattered our world with insensitive tough brush strokes, taught us to live violently. Gave us guns. We dreamed of a world we once had. We dreamed of her. She receded from our realities.  Physical annihilation became just the usual. Just a few stiff drinks and dismembering words, before we flew out on our vacations. Participate or be outcast. The truisms became  internalized. Context became irrelevant.

I became secretive. I kept her to myself. She was my life. She fed my spirit. How could i dissolve her? She was generous with me. Gentle with me. Why would i devolve her? What they came to understand, became universally accepted. What had never been our truth, became a given.

So I became jaded. I became angry. I left my community and held vigils for her. In her memory. They had resigned her to the grave, but she would never die in my heart. I practiced great and focused mindfulness in order to calm myself and combat the confusion in my head. They called my kind witches and heretics and demons. They outcast us. We were remanded to the night, when all were unconscious.

History was being rewritten, right before my eyes. I was so sad and disappointed. At times my only sustenance was a candle and my cards, and the sweet music in my head. My friends had been taken and bound by vines. I cannot speak further of the atrocities then committed. My mind was confused. My heart was subdued.

Every night in my prayers, i efforted to ask her for all hatred to be lifted off my heart. I prayed for my community. Yes. The reignition of the flame of our hearts would be a tedious and slow process that would take generations. I knew. I knew like i know now, that each of us would be reborn (not in a born again christian way).  One ray of california light at a time. only some lucky days could i walk with the divine. today was one.

life fully hydrated -iv-

The future will come into view, and tend the artificial light. Someone’s gotta do it. Maybe the ones who like to make points. Or the ones smoking freely of their legal painful swollen  joints. So what if we face reality. What’s the big deal about turning from it? Why not more embracing of the broke upon the broken? It doesn’t mean you like it. It may not mean you’re next. You’re eyes might change , for sure, might lose a little color. But the pale truth of compassion may be best in black and white. Those are the eyes you wanna stare into….all damn night. The closed become open minded, to air out their shuddering great depths of chilling pain. Those who ascend in great haste, from personally selected lands of sordid waste. Some to broadcast and podcast their pain, others lobbying  for just a taste.

Comedy is a wonderful treatment plan. And walking or hiking. Watch out for the men, girls. Their kinda hiking is hiking skirts. Parting the fabric seas for the young sprouts, the future of the human race… the wannabe materialists and the gonna feel deprived. The wannabe famous and the gonnabe famous… the future chicken tenders of the couch (to replace the current tenders of the couch). Turkeys. Cornish Hens. Nightwatchmen and women of the virtual screens (television junkies). Eyes fixed with such discipline. Clucking in all the right places. Pecking when necessary. Necking during commercial breaks. Braking to a perfect stop, when the feature doubles the creature… the wanna get paid for their efforts, the gonnabe disappointed again and again (myself included).

Up with gyros – Down with heros

Last year Black Friday truly lived up to its name in the United States of America. The Occupiers in US cities lost their darling status in the press, and were labelled haphazardly by politicians railing against the extreme Left, and by politicians trying to edge their platforms more toward the middle. Black Friday only further cemented the truths espoused by the Occupy cause. Materialism gone off the map! People getting bludgeoned and maced by others, all for the rights to a deep discount video game command center. What the fuck?

Meanwhile, China is happy to move closer to majority shareholder of USA stock. Will there be a whistle to stop the overseas investment momentum? Huh? I don’t think so! Everyone over here is already starving for some fucking credit, but the well has run dry. The job creation is turtling up the ramp. The baby birds are pushing their mouths to the sky. The OctoMom cannot even work her Octopussy to get her shit back in the black. Sorry Octomom.

You know its real bad. The interest rates wont let up no matter how hard you cry. The banks only have one ear open to the most diligent of homeowners searching for ways to dodge the black hole of foreclosure.Unemployment benefits run on and on and on, almost to touch triple digits. The potential disaster of the capitalist experiment is a natural one. I think so. The corporations don’t wanna pay taxes, forever. Costs them alot not to pay taxes. The tax leveling has been horribly tragic. The coffers are below empty. The states are most clearly united in empathy. Bankruptcy is common to them all.

Where the fuck do we go from here? Canada keeps our violence at safe distance. Mexico dumps bodies over the border, into the Mojave. Disappeared. Body by body. Eurozone again suffers, having fallen into the trap. Letting the dollar dictate the pace. Freedom in the middle east has wiped the meters back to zeros. Israel is almost completely walled off from the world. The free market whirlwind hits the young new freemarkets hard. Greed factor stresses the system. Independence is celebrated. But the dynamic nature of it all leaves economies prey to predators, globally. Infant stock markets are subject to crippling panic attacks.

Yeah, the world had good reason to turn curiosity toward free market capitalism into an enduring embrace of the system. The inflexible regimes in the mid-east were destined to break up into a thousand hard little pieces. The internet propped up a half-truth of noble proportions. The changes in the climate and the paradigm shift have all caused people to move toward life! Living life at one hundred percent. No more lying down to your reality. The internet told people they were not alone. Everyone wants the freedom to manifest destiny. And honestly, I don’t think most of them really see the cost…