they ask me how
i write. i may i might
tell them. or not
i establish rules then
in light of the risen sun
they lie broken
at my blood red
toenails
#katyamills
Tag Archives: red
the queen is dead
Ukraine being bombed to hell
China painting Hong Kong red
no one in the world can stop it
now the queen is dead
#katyamills
gracie the dragon
by the red house
in land park she lies
made of metal made of tile
glass and stones
the camelias they wave to her in the breeze
as she parades at the speed of earths
rotation made of
love
#katyamills
bull
gave my towel coded
red to the wind to be
honest the sun
is a bull
#katyamills
reading #179
world full of plastic
the greens are alive
and you know
only turn red when
you’re not looking
red is a just a mask
for how they really
feel
blue
in a world full of plastic
you would be
too
swallow
Some kinda store. Little Bit took off as much as she could chew. What was her purpose so to do. The red book back was broken and quite mostly paper-maiche. In look, not essence. Essentially a book and no longer readable. Tragic, were it not for the hope of recyclables. Postconsumer waste repurposed, like even after she got through mashin’ the shit out of it, too! Who? Little Bit, pumpkin shopping in September, true true.
rock out the red and white blues
Wanna really soak up our red and white blues?
No ifs ands or buts?
Wanna love like you never loved before? Then we gotta take it now, as is! Shaken and stirred, with cracks in it, explosive in the sky tonight. Even in the dry heat of Sacramento, thirty miles from where our ancestors once rushed for gold, for the freedom wealth bestows. Celebrate the land we have inherited! Ring church bells and show our true colors, all the same. We gotta locate ourselves on the map, and rock out from the self-referential. Bass heavy; we don’t need no trouble from the treble. Rock out so hard, anyone can hear you. Poor Canada’s getting rocked tonight on the border. Canada, overtaken with our red and white blues. Sound waves. And the poor fish on the shelf , in the three touched seas: Atlantic, Pacific, and Gulf of Mexico. The salmon heading home, like we must as well, to the place of our personal and collective birth.
We can celebrate, the same, as those who came before us. We can set the precedent for what is to follow. But it has to be today, the defragmentation. Don’t put it off any longer, if you can. Just do the best you can! Impart upon our children that quality so magical and worshipped overseas, those freedoms people climb over one another and stampede and bum rush our stage for! The mosh pit of American lifestyle will not be subject to litigation! The tangible running up against ourselves is the only way for freedom. It cannot be prosecuted. It cannot be tamed! On the formerly solid now slightly cracked and bruised foundation of capital that got us here. Our foundation keeps us. But of course, it will always have cracks in it, that will be exploited by the earth when it quakes. But American freedoms, like mother nature, are a force beyond any judicial resolution. Not to punk justice. Just to represent what is true, though unfair!
We are the same, but we must honor the truth. There are great divides between us. The division of ethnicities, long since established and still enduring. The feeling we feel when we meet someone we never met, yet feel something deeper than the acquaintance. Something predisposed. Something heavy, yet intangible. We can only be the same if we honor the truth of our differences. The native Americans, the tribes, are always separate from us. We are not the same. Our ancestors settled the land in a predominantly violent and unsettling fashion. We cannot forget. If we want to be free to celebrate what we have in common, we must first come at one another eye to eye, fingerprint to fingerprint. We can only connect from the longitude, the latitude, the experiential essential of confronting the divine at the crossing. Where converge the distinction of free spirits, the generosity of real attitude.
Take your punk out the trunk and display it for one another. Only then can we share our red and white blues. Something wonderful. Something source. Confrontational. Conversational. Electric! Divine. An equal sharp and undying thirst for the wild brand of freedom that pushes all boundaries out to infinity. Limitless freedom. The kind the flying Wallendas know when they tightrope a quarter mile canyon, sanctioned by the Navajo tribe. This is the pure kind of real, definitely punk, red and white blues, we share. Where we get hot rocked by the us in the USA.
Sure, we will have our differences, we will partition and crack up and wikileak and fissure and branch arterial out to the very capillaries. But the blood returns home venously, in the veins. Returns home to the heart that we share. The wild heart that risks everything, just to have it all. No borders can stop it. No barbed wire can hold it back. Pumping red white and blues out into the twenty-first, mother-loving, century. Meet you there. In the light. Wearing black. Painting red and blue over white.
Katya W. Mills katyamills.com 07/13 – Daughter of the American Revolution
K IS SILENT 