impressions from a dream

i had a dream. you were standing in line for concert tickets. for us. i was waiting in the car outside. i could see you through the glass. when you got back to me i realized you only bought one. for yourself. we had a big fight. i was outraged again. you could see i was hurt and nothing could be done about it. emotional i pulled away from the curb. deep in the heart of a city. i was full of adrenaline and losing it. i stepped on it and drove that old Chevy into a subway enclosure. bloody stepping out on the street. you were okay, more worried for me. someone called for an ambulance. then we could hear the sirens. you embraced me. i finally got it. you cared. i couldn’t calm down.  #katyamills

april 25

the kid at dutch bros this morning handed me my annihilator with light ice. i asked: how are you? i had a dream last night, he said. i was back in high school and late for a physics exam on chapter 5 and my ride fell through. i woke up completely stressed… i offered him a quick interpretation of the dream. i hate you! he said, i don’t want to know anything about myself!

#katyamills

action on the street. two thousand some.

the women with newport smooth hundreds walk the sidewalks, smoke sweeps into their lungs. heads dizzy with the chemicals they swing their upper bodies down over the bus stop benches, regretfully, and around go the hips, puff their lips out at the strangers, push middle fingers out at dangers. the drunks duck into meeting halls, intoxicated by sweet anonymity, the junkies escape the blistering heat of the valley, prayers and those who care, or want to care, inside open doors. tears of misery. tears of joy. the women born in the forties and fifties come out with abandon, pushing upper ages into push up bras with powder, in triple digit heat. the older they are the stronger. the men have become very kind and sugar sweet with old age. out with their canes, in wheelchairs, on walkers. ripened and unashamed to be weak after lifetimes of having to be strong. the heat has the strip malls and parking lots cooked, melting tar into rivulets dripping down where the rainwater is supposed to take the oils, the wheels they are spinning and change direction to avoid an ugly truth in the road, the film drips off of grills embedded in the pavement, the fishtails of boys in cars dragging the streets take water in through the gills. the ones been around the block stand there talking, don’t need to go around it again, the quiet ones come out to listen to the talkers who are talking to anyone and no one, the young ones quiet and listening but not for long, the young girls holding the hands of the young men and young women, smile and kick up the dust, the young boys are satellites who blush. the workers are working, the players playing cards, the surveyors, construction, on the job, hammering and drilling and surveying, connecting wires, hard hats on hard heads, staring at a soft ass passing by on the street, hard, hammering and measuring and shouting over the trucks, wishing they was talking to some honey, sugar sweet. the smokers are kicking snipes into the street, newports and kools and camels, dehydrated, rolling embers off the end of a half-smoked marlboro, rollies, talking shit, looking, the girls gossiping and looking and laughing a little, the men boasting and smiling, the punks smoking reds like joints. real estate agents taking smoke breaks on the hour. waitresses cursing into their breaks, called back in by a supervisor or line cook to get their asses inside and grab that fucking marinated mountain trout with rice and green beans. they sashay into the air conditioned dining rooms to their tables. waiters incensed by ten percents, dropping cans and butts on cold cement. then out on the streets, free, after they all punch out.  #katyamills

zoom 40

in the heart of the pandemic 

within six feet social distance of 

an asymptomatic friend you 

contracted death 

surreptitiously 

faced mortality and

survived

you planned a great feast

of endless gratitude

table of forty 4

the holidays

by zoom 

#katyamills

yes #wip

5 months of writing and editing and struggling to understand which direction to go, the story is unraveling and i’m getting some ground underneath this…i met a guy who is sitting on manuscripts he wrote years ago. i told him he might want to consider self-publishing. it can be a joyful experience.  

runaways

we drank hot chocolate from silver-rimmed china

around a polished wooden table

 

i found your big toe beneath it

punching through the canvas

while eating macaroons

 

why are you running away?

she asked us

 

i stood up tall

on my toes

 

you would too

if your home

was like ours

csus

california state university. sacramento. i got lost on the campus again, after dark. asked for directions no less than three times. i know why they call it eureka hall. the moment i found it i felt that way. the kids were packed in the classroom, florence gave me a big smile and i took my place on the panel. the three stories came before mine were nothing short of inspirational. i hoped my truth could keep the spirit alive. about halfway through my story i found the pulse. the faces began to light up. these are difficult memories to draw. i told them how i owed forgiveness to my dearly departed cat. around 2001 Raccoon turned on me and slashed me in the face with his claws. that’s when i knew what an asshole i had become, deep in the heart of addiction.