being someone (twenty someone)

to be honest
i get excited
start believing
life can be
a certain special way

but not
how it
really is

being nobody
and really being
nobody

feels better

than gettin’
all excited like
trip-hoppin’
clubs

the end up
two am to
six

any night
any morning
except maybe
mondays

dancing
lights
dawn

buddha garden
drug dealers
licking lips
circling
hips

being nobody
getting shot
over billiards
on cue

really

being nobody
feels a whole lot
being nobody
feels whole

being nobody
used for sex
on a side street
san francisco

not far away
in some dude’s
rv

who you met
under lights
synched with
sound

fucked around
fucked with
for fun

for no particular reason
giving yourself
to anyone

or someone
who cares
who loves you
cherishes you
for a weekend

being someone
belonging
is real

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people work better when driven (insane) -ii)

You would worry when I started talkin’ about culture. I would be sad, when you were tellin’ me about the future.  We would worry , at the bottom of some grave just above sea level, just outside New Orleans. At the top of some skyscraper, in Chicago.  Short days getting shorter, as winter came on. Worries becoming more defined, less complicated as time went on. Less akin to fear. More real. And I could still talk to you and you, me, but neither of us could talk to anybody else. Sometimes. Lots of unintentional broken promises in the world. But why? Was it something about all the air traffic competing for attention, packets and waves? Digital signals. Analog overtones. Low def signals. High def undertones?

Anyway, I didn’t expect to be put on trial in Judge So-and-So’s  court, either. Who plans out their court appearances, precisely, like bottle-ship builders? So why were we there? Public scrutiny over our could give a damn about our in-laws  presentation? To be backhanded for being attracted like mothra to roman candle, to our favorite chosen outlaws? For our multiple citations for  by-law window breakage of some corporate glass house?  Ya. I guess we’re gonna get black for our wool designation. I never asked to be anything. An icon. A nobody. A sentimentalist. A freak. A mentor. A bleeding heart. An outlaw. A witness. I never asked to be an witness. Did you? I just was one.

I never wanted to dig up dirt on anyone. You never wanted to unearth the once savory bones of goodwill gone bad in an microcosmic corner of a lemon-mustard seed culture, sitting between continents like a refrozen sorbet on dragon roll rotation. But when called, one must avoid perjury. We have a strong defense at the ready. Your honor, please, let me call the most dysfunctional family in the greater regional area, to the stand. Ya, they can all fit in the witness box. They speak in unison. No questions, your honor. Just let them knock around up there for a minute. Their presence alone tells volumes. We rest our case.

 We are certainly not guilty of crimes against humanity, ourselves included. It’s not my fault my dna bleeds german. Objection! It wasn’t your preoccupation to study the figures on automaton optimization protocol. I was born in the seventies, man! In the usa. My job was to be free to be me! Not some blueprint come to life on any sale of the century showcase! You were not conceived c-section after a long night of difficult breakbeat breathing, just to end up hanging on some arm or olive branch, for an hour every week! Were you? I was not born an accoutrement! To help sell fine sports cars, toys of the nouveau riche! No! We’re not going at a discount in a dollar store anymore, to someone who looks the part. A good study for consumption! I am no notch in the belt or raggedy rag in the hair, anymore. Trying so hard to protect them from some sun.

We must have early stage alzheimers, you and me and them. Its those iron pots. We gotta get rid of those iron pots…the studies have shown. How many times have we told us? This is where the real crime occurred. In the kitchen. Heavy metal. Its no good for our soft shell brain cells. Shit! Have we all been frying our eggs in it, again? Goodness gracious! Almost forgot to admit that into evidence. Who signed off on iron, in the first place? Was a backroom deal, I bet. Steel got edged out by some caucasian’s half-baked sales pitch, on some back-nine golf game. Before aluminum and Tiger Woods.

That’s how it must have gone down. We may not remember when, exactly, but we were brainwashed by the nine iron lobby. That should shut the door on the case. Now who gets life served up behind steel bars? Whose gonna iron this out? For driving me and you (insane)?

Nobody.

Why? Because we work better, this way.

Katya Mills  07/13 @ katyamills.com