profile #21

soap bubbles for eyes text bubbles 

for tongue corn syrup stomach 

marijuana cig stuck to sandpaper

lips. the screens 

crack and pop and whistle

words march across the tape it’s twenty

twenty one

wash and stand up 

to the sun

#katyamills

in kind

Correspondence was not much fun anymore. i was lucky if i got a card in the mail. emails made me nervous because there were so many awaiting reply. the days of receiving long letters penned in script by hand in ink on someone’s personal stationery were over. i had a thought. if i took the time to write letters the old way again, bypassing text and email and chat and video, and even bypassing phone, would I get a response in kind? and then might time turn back for us and write our lives the way we once wrote them, when we wrote long missives on personal stationery with silver trim and painted envelopes, hanging sideways over our elbows, quietly playing with each letter,  slowly, conscientiously by scripted hands, young and rolling in ink.

a.i

assault on artificial intelligence

Today we surface with allegations upon society and demand an end to the assault on our artificial intelligence. too long has this behavior gone unchecked. all of the wisdom beamed from the palms of our hands has been degraded, made obsolete, unable to stand up to the simple dinner party or circle of friends. Going the way of the cigarette.

We ask society to stop bashing, prohibitively! Cease and desist. Consider the repercussions! Consider the next interview or public speech, test of mettle or moment of crisis! What gps report or breaking fake news item or innovative application can save us. Siri and google assistants be gone! Must we open the old drawer and fish out the cylindrical battery-powered flashlight? Must we be tethered to ye old landline? Must we turn in our stylus for a no.2 pencil and calculate tips in our head?

Society would fissure our amoled screens; engadgets fallen from fashion. We speak out today, not only for ourselves, but for the procession of human regenerations! The unspeakable must be named lest it impinge upon our future! Dare we wake up and find ourselves lost and confused in a lonely great space between text messages and instagrams? Unable to be bailed, audiovisually, without our electric pulse?

Imagine sitting in the chill of a leaky room among faces of so-called family and friends, twiddling our thumbs before books with actual pages made of paper pulp reading real printed words? God help us! To feel the weight of hugs and an atmosphere knocking at our pores yet helpless to call up its humidity nor temperature! Heaven knows the sun will rise upon our pretty impoverished little heads.

missing you

Early saturday morning. USA. Someone took a bite out of the supermoon. The neighborhood sounds like noon.

A girl is out on the front lawn, yelling about her parents. She is distressed. Saying she will call the cops. Someone trying to hush her.

Someone stole something from her. She won’t say what it is. Plenty of dogs barking all around. The neighborhood sounds of noon.

I guess you wanna see me. Talk to me. You let me know in a text. I really wanna see you too. Someone took a bite out of my heart. I might have to call the cops.

I miss you. It’s so hard to keep a distance. I don’t wanna feel upset. Lonely when i am with you.

I listen to the sounds around me. To drown the ones inside me.

Maybe i will see you some day.
I wish I hope we can.
Maybe soon.
We can meet at high noon.
In the garden.
Behind the café.