i ran the streets
she saw me struggling
my struggle became ours
october
cold days under big sky
leaves dead and tumble
pale faces passing
she saw with her soul
images in her head
she painted painfully
bold
while i lay on a couch
watching light
she swung herself over and
into my arms
dropping elbows into my chest
pinning us into the cushions
together
laughing
we ran the streets
we were young
all was told
gone the glittering
gold
-Katya
(remixing diary (1996) entries)
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| 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
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| k by k, 2016 |
glazed
twisted
french
cake?
with instant coffee
at the break
and more than most
can take?
all i got is your
flat screen tv
a drill
i wanna sell
some inkjet printers from
the land of lost toys
where we once lived
you related with
tv characters over me
not the people
not the actors
but parts they were playing
police detectives
not real ones
to miss the
true crime
broken heart hypersensitives
in the land of no shame
got what we wanted
(was) high all the time. how strange
to know it (and still proceed knowing)
how counterfeit
why is that so fascinating?
you had me too
under cosmos
free internet speed
windows #7
pharmaceutical-grade weed
(you had me)
all about the
floor
my clothes
you washed them dry
i could not keep up with our snail-paced life
i tried
i guess i wrote all
over you
too
nobody scared me like me
and you in our sorry spiral
toppled up to the dresser
where we made up a million times
our palette of minerals
buff and of cream
finishing powder
at home where
we were sure never to
be seen
KatYa
(remix @ 2011)
i was waiting for you and my internal (programming) to stop the isolating (command) and go outside where you told me the sun still shines, waiting for the sun (listening to the Doors) in a bathtub on the run, completely thrilled was all i got (when i had you) and the two cats – Shy and Drama – somehow all my adult life all the cats again and again protect the sanctity of my life, but you, there is you and me and (we are) more than most (cats) can handle – in 2011 – we had our homeless friends looking for homes we had our home which we would not have much longer, we had been told. you and me we have grown but not grown old. we have been abused and abused we have, tossed our litanies into the fire of another conjured argument with friends or enemies or one another and the same. all i got is you and our song remains the same. the hook is the only problem.
all we got is enemies. number one on the hot list of those who hate our guts? you. and me. in the space between us god bore witness, well, that’s the kind of sentence got strung out and led to the forest path this morning, sometimes urgency in it, too, or swollen with bottom dwollen wrath (Allman brothers can soothe us only so long).
all i got is my music sometimes. this morning all i got is a cloud and the light so bright its perfectly loud and hurts my head a bit. but i got medication for that. OT and C what i got? i got meds and antibacterial handwash a tropical sea color blue with bubbles trapped in there like, well, like leaders trapped behind their military might in Syria in Egypt in Tunisia in Iran in Yemen in Algeria…trapped like bubbles in a cascading tropical Facebook blue ignited and (it had been said) long overdue…
like me and you. take us back and stamp us red and pay for us so we can recirculate back into the system where some unfortunate child some day will wander away and pull us off a darkened shelf in the horror section, to look through to the other side. ya, all i had back then was a pretty good feeling we would stay alive and survive the two and the ones (these numbers gotta add up to something), on a day was February twenty-one, twenty-eleven. 0.2.2.1.2.0.1.1. numbers add up to nine …
#9
KatYa, 2016 remix 2011
made a clicking sound
each time a panel hit the wooden table
(a computer will try and replicate this
but won’t ever cut it. thank god)
the exhaust out the back
continued for hours (rising against the snowfall)
black fossil fuels somehow taken into
the sky tone
crisp and light and exposed
unlike before when
it was soft and
dark and unseen
well. you and me we would have it all
exposed
on a beaten path
now road. on a long road
west
moving moving moving
as if there was anywhere better
to go
