journal #2019

i thought i had it but it went flickering off and on again like shoddy electricity or a super big storm. you can have something and then lose it. it’s disturbing but it’s true. so i glued it to the wall where i could keep my eyes on it. i posted it on the mirror, after the glue wore out and it dropped behind a stack of books and papers. i brushed my teeth to the sound of it, foaming at the mouth. one night it swam down the drain. i broke it out of the plumbing system, what a messy affair. i let it dry beside the jade tree, on the windowsill, hoping against hope it would never leave me again. but it fled underground, planting itself beneath the jade. i watered her faithfully, against the wishes of the jade, until the roots took it up and brought her back to me, a flower. i smiled. i picked her off and thread it into my hair. everyone commented how pretty we were, together. then, that spring, the wind carried her away… when i listen very close, i can still hear her calling, my voice, calling for me. that’s when i know i must be alone. and write. -katya mills

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(everyone needs) an anchor

I am troubled for her. I want an anchor to hold and keep her from dashing upon the rocks. There’s been time and room to navigate these challenges, to circle and play, to figure eight, collide the waves.

The surface stretches out like a canvas.

I have numbers to make sense of it.

I have broken her into lines.

Now it is late and the wind picking up. Consonants are overthrowing consonants. All must be sealed and lashed for the night. The vowels are howling. Hoping to withstand the harshest critique.

She has to hold.

greenblue

today is history, tomorrow. whatever was said or done already is etched in our past. a historical record. this post is me creating my history. i write these words in a pyschosocial fashion on a paperless trail, connecting my life to yours. i like how well we make history, together.

goodbye sweet moment. lying in the warm light of a summer morning, California. readying myself for whatever highs and lows the day may bring. getting right with God. watching my kittens thirst by their eyes for the birds. drawing back the bow. these eyes are emerald. these eyes are amber. mine are greenblue…sending this message to space.

radio

a poet is not a songbird
aloft in dreamcoat
colors

a poet
cannot be silenced
neither

a poet is caught in a
generic plastic box

unadorned
undusted

telling time by
a cheap clock and
who cares the time is wrong

gnarled wire cut up
stragglin’ behind

an empty hole for
square batteries

long since
outdated

half-chewed by cats
and dogs and stretched
from fallin’

past its
limit

gettin’ weak signal
so sensitive you
cannot hide

the
noise

what 4 waiting

this orange flower 

was all green all

closed up

 

just another bud

all night long

waiting on the sun

 

cold and frozen like

she forgot about her

true self her real

beauty her

glow

 

what 4 waiting

we might have forgotten her, too

and the sun, too

 

waiting….

what 4?

 

she opened

her heart her

true self

sun kissed orange

to the world