sorry division

the old sound was nothing like the new sound, and the new sound nothing like that which would replace it, but when the music was at its level best, well, you could tell the old lived inside the new,  a candle cased in glass, where all the moths gathered, and world reflections wide came to a collective point, we became one again you and me, before the flame flickered and the wick succumbed, gave way to the sorry division.

real unreal by katya
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strikes

made my strikes

I went bowling over the weekend and made my strikes… we had nothing left to spare. I dropped some van halen on the ears and a ten pound marble on wax floors, and that puppy found its way to the void and disappeared, taking a whole lotta sticks with it to the hereafter. My form wasn’t very good and gosh, I didn’t care about the arrows or the baseball game or the scorecard on the screen next to it. All I cared about was turning around to look you in the eyes and know you loved me.

re.verb

last day of may the reverb

America. was the last day of may and all of the dead end streets look like never ending roads, and all the dead end relationships are enthusiastic pressing another go around with hopes one lucky night of what we once had may carry a small sound around and turn the johnny rotten back to first date territory with long lashes and laughter, and heal the deep gashes like reverb sweetening the deal, to hold a song’s triumphant note deep into the memory of the night, a stripped mall’s dollar store turned boutique, a dead end presidency turned back to camelot and kennedy days, a mid-preaching pause full of meaning, careless words begin to care, a rebellion to the cause of suffer leaning… it was the last day of may and we have a chance to be deep again, full again, and resonant

ensconce me

(re)cognition(s)

i thought all over you, i am sorry, i mean no harm, all my memories playin across your body and face like runny egg-white shadows and you don’t know what to do, so politely ensconced listenin to me go on and on about stuff we forgot purposefully long ago — OH — the damage i might do on accident, for me you would do anything, for you i would do anything, making something of you you are not, here with our cutoff gloves playing fingertipsies, blind to the sign language we are groping — THE — cognition is not fully lubricated, does not cover the entire street and buildings and sky and short bursts of nature in the medians, i guess in this ragtag mind i got, driftin here, pausing over there — BY — the cracks in the roads whereby loiters and got no business to be, trance music, clubs, dancing, you and me, why can i not hold up on our benevolency — PLEASE — i mean no recognitions, move along little thoughts, fly away, move along, there are interior spaces up in northern provinces, Canada and the like, which need fulfilling — SPACES — we will bundle ourselves up and head out into icy quiet not-threatening ones,  warmth of coffee and small talk, overtures of what we may be if we simply let ourselves trudge forward and go

journal

Journal # 01.02.17

I started my day with a cadillac. Home-roasted Sumatra pour over combined with Swiss Miss dark hot chocolate. Some good music in Tycho’s latest album ‘Epoch’. Now seated at my desk and writing. This is where I love to be, what I love to do. I figure the more I can give myself this chance, the better off I am for you, too. I will give it my all today. Lucky #2017

finish line CIM. 2016

a song. possibly

Here are the lyrics to a song I am workin on (to be accompanied by my acoustic guitar which I have been neglecting terribly, poor thang)…

“Remember when you thought everything was going well and then it was not, when winter was too cold and summer too hot, another cup of coffee would pull ya through and it did, raised you up like a pup by the lids… some day you gonna be a railroad tie, no one gonna fuck with this guy, some day you can be railroad grade, swimming ona sea of marmalade… some day you gonna be a railroad tie, no one gonna fuck with this guy… some day you can be railroad grade, swimming ona sea of marmalade…”

so i saw somethin last night, like a vision, right
i had to let go of the past and move on. now.
so i am

have a wonderful fabulous fantastic effortless lighthearted brilliant day everyone
love and light

KatYa

the runway runs away (a remix)

REMIX of ‘this loves for real .no stopping. all green some whole some lights’ (circa 10 May 2011 at 03:48)  — K by K

k by k, 2016

fuck I have been cold. I have been frightening cold, I have. until some small smile some sarah somewhere in this place post punk and petrified with perfect well wishing winning new paradigm nod to the north. if north is astral. if north is known by certain colors that stand out like a football i mean soccer jersey that’s brilliant yellow lighter than gold yet darker than lemon and loved even lusted after between air -steam- rising top of the crucial team consciousness on soft ground with soft ball and hard handshakes raising the rising roof of random screaming. a world of color a world of meaning. for most this was not so, but they backed on the tidal wave like the undertow, where the passion of the few was sourced you know, the masses go and they flow, the massive movement to go with the flow or go and go blow. rarely was this impressive, mostly nullified after the monument to him or her had been already built and cemented in place for public worshiping and it was discovered she or he had been sidelighting in a darker shade of themselves, shadowing the lives of innocents and extinguishing others candles because they lusted and cause they could. you know who i’m talking about there’s so many of those. loved by many now hated by most. one circled roped in focus can distract from the life your partner your wife around you. your son who packs a gun -the heat is beat- and maybe boy or maybe girl, the foil-wrapped careful cut icebergs or powders or icicles or dub-sides come half-baked with home fries for the waiting guys waiting sometimes impatient waiting. sent. sent by that curiosity fills the soul kills some whole. just before the -you don’t know now you know- part. the grow on your street that your feet touch and meet there. pavements so hard they killed fred astaire. or would had had he not been nimble. like no bread, just bologna with capers and mozzarella, white wet from the homeland near the river saucony. alive and kicking. kicking down the doors to taste buds. touch memory deeper than sentimental songs, you know. by heart. don’t start, ‘cause I’m not finished, planet earth, the spoon, the black and white, the dish, the fashion statement the runway ran away with. now you come back to reality and fall in love with someone and lose yourself. there now, your good and lost, child, god loves you like that, good and lost in love forever.   – KatYa

k by k, 2016