type

sometimes you don’t think you got anything to say but give it a try and it will come. like releasing a bull from a pen. storm out of there bucking, all the thoughts and feelings stored up over the years. a super sweet release and i would not stop for nothing, full bore, no breaks. no getting a glass of water or blowing a nose or answerin the phone. no stretching no standing up no looking away. gotta stay devoted to that cadence that rhythm, keep pressure on those keys … and the headache soon abandoned the scene for somewhere else … and the heaviness in the heart dissipated … and the darkness behind the eyes finally gave way to light.    #katyamills

typewriter.15

one morning you sit down
to your work with your coffee
beside you and

the tides have been broken 
they have turned on the ocean!
this is what you came for
so suddenly
emergent

disciple to words
the reading
the writing

the sea and the healing
fresh atmosphere replaces
the ceiling! an absence of the world
you recollect so unfeeling

your voice is upon you
you’ve found yourself! finally
the struggle is gone
you no longer push into page

strangely awakened
enveloped by an undercurrent
you sing the song you were born to sing
you come thrashing to surface!

like faith
you cannot see it
you only feel it
you know

these are the moments a writer lives by!
when time loses interest
appetite gone silent
and the sentences form on their own

full of spirit!
making meaning
full of feeling!
with rhythm and rolling

you collide with the page
like a strike
when you’re bowling

thank the stars
thank the gods
you got lucky
kid

stream subzero

good versus bad could be the subject line in so many stories we tell one another, the backdrop for the narrative tales that thread in and out of the jacks in the boxes, the sevens the elevens, the wall green white hens laying eggs on your bank account until they topple and fall below zero to get charged lacking overdraft protections, the bank tricked out the selections, egg in your eye so all you see in the yolk of your mirror is some bloke whose tramped out and you clean and stamped out with some substandard nonglass maybe bleach infused product, summer tanned to understand and bleached on the beach, privileged to be lazy with your reach for the cell phone to make ends meet in another zip code, a city street, an elevation way up high in a place of certain control and power, soon to be undertowed away having worn the boot too long and through, having anchored yourself in one place. bombs away they say as they raze you — only you can raise a new you — a locus among locusts where from all the lofty semi-ideas truck over inferieures in hemis with emmys and gaze, bent over forward or backward or side to side just to hide your true feelings toward someone not quite befitting the mantle, the boss, the one who commands, the one who destroys outside thinking, the one who insulates the factory and checks off on imbalances. on the balance sheet of life its quite clear that the eggwhites of eyes register the very zero so many are fearing and steering as far clear of as may be consciously possible, and who knows where the unconscious is going sometime, personally or collectively dreaming away on a counter. what makes life interesting, makes truth stranger in many ways and harder to pinpoint than an invention of some no good for nothing unemployed poet mentored by purportedly self-actualized dharma bums and beats, optimized daily with new vegan recipes of brown sugarcane juice and cost-cutting and paper-saving methodology, supplemented by earth focused animal-friendly strawberry goo, and rather fascinating for a bonus, right? and that’s what they think of you and me, too.

soft blanket statements

The urge is to break away from the pack and recover my own heartbeat, whenever I am lost in the crowd, and like Debussy’s ‘Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun’ my pulse on its own stands wobbly and inquisitive at first, wishing for the comfort of the soft blankets left behind, and gathering my strength with the first light to see myself through to some incidental rhythm which might pick me up and love me a little and carry me, not unlike a waltz, a Kachaturian favorite at the Bolshoi Ballet, anything that begins to throb and push my blood out for more, more, more… ’cause what we have here is not enough, my friend, not enough at all to justify the effort life demands, no, to go on living requires an advancement of faith sometimes, a personal loan of decisive courage written off an account in arrears, I mean therefore a great risk of sorts only could be taken by a fool or someone who cannot fail. And that would be me, dear sir, enfathomed in the stabilizing clay of primordial pockets, ready to be fired and glazed, a modern day rockstar sold out to the streets and kicked by a label, stretched to the capillaries on short supply of sanity, appeal in the curiosity of all that’s gone wrong when dipped in the culture, coming out bold print with a comic sans striation. A modern day American girl with a penchant for obscurity and woven matte finish regalia. Loving you, loving life and ready for anything. Turning to old masters when I don’t have a clue, songs from the cemetery when there’s nothing better to do, yes, punching up the pulse to a lively arpeggio, ascending off a decline and here I sign.  – KatYa

the rhythm of a mistake

Ya, you always said the unpopular thing and that was cool, when someone was about to get hurt and someone had to say something and no one did but you. We didn’t have the guts back then to stand up for what was right. I didn’t. Things happen so fast it’s over before you’ve made up your mind. Fear gettin the best of courage. What would happen if you went against the rhythm of a mistake? All eyes on you, maybe some cursin and shovin and pushin as you try and stand your ground and stand up for what you know is right. We were all asking ourselves the wrong question. What would happen if you didn’t break the rhythm of a mistake? The song would go on and carry out over the trees, into the valleys, echoing, bouncing around the canyons and maybe even out to sea. And everyone and Donald Trump would be singing it, without knowing what it really meant. And the heat of the sun wouldn’t enliven you anymore. The heat from the sun would just burn you.  -KatYa

Here’s my latest reading from Maze…

Book Two
Chapter 16:1

you know you’re on to something

when you start playing the keyboard

like a piano

atomically bombed

Today i saw a man hold a cat in his arms, loving it like a child. Today i got so very tight in the chest that it hurt.

An unfortunate dispute with a toxic young woman, whose touch like unconscious betrayal. Yet close to my years on this earth.

The warmth vibrating for almost hours, before the body, dehydrate.

The cold-blooded toxicity poured freely into my vessel. I swear i tried to dam her! But unimpeded rhythms are to live by. And i need to know how you really feel.

And we could have been sisters.
And we could have been brothers.
Maybe, some day, we could have been lovers.

No use. All i could do was hold myself high and separate, in the end. For feeling all my feelings to the end. Even the most celebrated among us, shy away from great pain.

I will be the conduit of all the worlds triumphs and tragedies.
I will take it on and let it all go.
I will be forced on my knees, to find some disparate peace.

We all earned our place on this pounded round earth. With our gods. We run around circles, figure eights. Atomically bombed.

Toward infinity

The door rode its hinges slow burnin to flush with the wall. all on its own. This was not prerecorded.

Equal parts coffee and milk collapsed into cafe au lait in her delicate grip, as some carefully chosen words quickly fell from her lip in a tumble. His eyes almost crossed like her legs just across the tableau.

A still life came over the scene. The words, though, careful but carelessly scrawled, etched out of toned minds, now splayed now sprawled.

His words and hers made commotion in the silent unrest laid before them, his vest firm buttoned and frozen. Her LBD tighter and blacker than before, suddenly. Her dead ends tapering off past the bleach. His beard sharp to prove her softness.

His words and her words, the curse words dissociate, and volume of light come through like a maid, dusting off old and maybe great expectations. Poaching the eyes.

Sudden shy slight indy movement. His hand on her thigh. More determined in half of half seconds.  They smile off confusion which falls by the way, down to die.

The music, all sound of mundane, none profane, starts up again. The egg timer ticks. The cars in the street. The birds in trees. The cat-like energetics all replete.

She softens all ripe with a sigh. They breathe. Toward infinity.