semisweet end

when i die bury me pen in hand

typewriter for a stone. do not trust your sight

or touch the body scentless

cold and frightful in the ground

while my spirit seen there

wanderin the cemetery grounds leans

off a row whistling some

semisweet show tune

#katyamills

year of diminishing concerns (june, 2012)

So it was here….or damn near. the year of diminishing concerns. by way of emotions unsettled, the last year she left us. the chains cracked and discarded at the concrete block where our least civilized, most colorful sparks of feeling had their birth.

The sparks they flew, travelled in waves and packs, on levels above and below. sometimes interlacing or crossing, taking on the spirit of some tangent to the earth.

Do not underestimate the ever necessary play. the critical mass of affect across our temporal yardsticks. Or do, and take damages. what you have hopefully carefully watched and learned like language, like its the preeminent thing one must learn to survive, may just finally come to assist you. Like that english lit degree you have dragged behind you for the past two decades. Just better.

Just you wait. all will come to critical mass, when these inflections and movement of emotions finally cross over. For here it is that two otherwise untouching languages of sorts, find one another and throw up question marks to amplify the disconnect.

the moment whereby the signs have been shot up like skeet. like fireworks. staged. not to touch. deliberate. like rockets of opposing nations. indelible. shot up like dope fiends. any city, any state. side by side turning blue. unintelligible.

so clear to see. but uncertified. unwanted. protested against. denied.  and possibly lost not only without translation but without transmission. lost without transmission. that’s what awaits us all, if we don’t get it together. isn’t it? our life depends upon us. artists. writers. sentients. come on now.

I guess its gonna be another patterned bailout. not by the 1% of the top of the capital food chain, na. nyet. the elders. the ones we think we have disposed of. the ones we thought were deposed. or deposited in some trailer park or cookie cutter geriatric facility, anywhere, usa. the elders will rise again. the subtle sense purveyors. they will again exercise great ascending adrenaline in their collective fashion. seemingly out of contact with one another. deaf. blind. drunk. dumb. numb.

watch them. not with your eyes, silly. watch them process the foreign signs. they won’t need cell phones or netbooks. but they might use them, if they so choose. their eyes will light up and warm us all like coals. from the inside out. in the steady blowing currents they call the nor-easters .

we won’t know til it hits us, or even after the fax. the message in the sky. the smoke signalled trax. Come to us as fortune, by way of validation. in this year of diminishing returns. if we’re lucky. the elders. the subtle sense purveyors. come to heal our collective spiritual emergency. putting their asses on the line for us. like real fathers. like real mothers.

starting from nothing . zero. come out of the earth. on some seemingly insignificant fragment of universal feeling. all you gotta do there is witness and watch. even blessings are optional. just open your eyes. just witness and watch.