one one four. lost

walmart. 8am. a man in the parking lot sells tamales out of the trunk of his car under a green and red striped umbrella. neither of us won the mega millions last night. soon I am #lost in the aisles in my thoughts.  


thatz fire

down by the delta the sky

opens up with the land

on a couple hours sleep we hit 

walmart. unimpressed in a world

of slippers pumpkin 

pie and receipts

night fell over the lot

the wind shook us down i

looked in your eyes they

were laughing like fire

i saw an angel

on a tire swing

just kids 

in the yard


inspired by my friend Karen W.

mission 0200

you left a pack of cigs in my car i 

don’t know who you are i

left them on the bench on 

the east front of west sacramento walmart 

O two hundred hours

for you





a-z mart -fin)

We breathe life into stale situations. We are often obsessed with creating our creations. We try and listen to all other minorities. We try and not abuse power, when in the majority. We like to beg, borrow or steal ice cream sandwiches. For a meal. We feel the moon the same way everyone else feels the sun. We are not vampires, but we can relate. We love music, and have strong opinions. We cook whole turkeys to feed our minions. BDSM does not bother us slightly. Dominatrix, as common as guitar lix. We will tell you kick rocks if we want to, if you’re lucky. Or grant amnesty, and forgive you for all kinds of disrespect. Compassion is our practice, and available to all. Though it may not feel compassionate, when your ass gets kicked off our wall.

We do not blow sunshine. We prefer to absorb it by our skin. Anti-all-things-ignorant may be our purpose, but it’s not that defined. We tend to embrace those who embrace us. We can be dangerous and kind.We like to reign down terror over all microphones. It’s usually a method of letting go. So that terror does not act out, outside of a show. We may wear too much makeup, or none at all. We prefer an honest face, to one that is sentimental or tough. We rarely believe that enough, is enough.

What makes life worthwhile to us, is not up for discussion. We do reserve a space, for those who never belonged. If you want to find this space,  you can usually start at the heart. Go inward. Feel your way out of there.


We ride fixed speeds and ten speeds. We DIY , and we do come together. We drink horchata to balance our cultural hangovers. We are skaters. We prefer the X Games to the Olympic Games. We like to carry backpacks all over the place. And less for the stealing than for grounding ourselves in any space. We know homeless and squatters and gypsies, alike. We may be them or have been. We see them in government office lines where we all stand. Or public squares, free to congregate types of affairs. Or protests. Or movements. The point is: we see them.

We work really hard, when we find something worth working on. We tag the city, down side up. We have some fun. Take generous breaks. We watch eachother’s backs. We live alone, persecuted by painful thoughts. We suffer from a variety of mental disturbances. We create an ongoing disturbance in the world. We are the tension that holds us together. We are less than comfortable most of the time. We cannot condone hero worship for long. We own the formerly blood clotted marks, left in doors and on walls. Memento to some punk ass show at some shady dive club or former bowling alley, some brick box now likely marked for death. Or gentrified into smaller brick boxes with subzero refrigerators and double pane windows. And essentially marked for death.

We are indelibly inked and tatted up. We rarely believe that enough, is enough. We breathe life into stale spaces. We bring change, in rhythms and waves. We love to look up toward the moon, at night. We are working class by choice. You can hear our voice. We tag the walls. We laugh alot. We know squirrel and bird calls. We come in many colors, and will weave into our lives and yours. Our fabric is like denim. We offer protection, without abandon. We may frighten you. But we are not really frightening at all. In fact, we denounce fear every chance we get. We denounce ignorance in all its forms and faces, with abandon. Just as we love, with abandon. We laugh, with abandon.

We live, with abandon.

Katya Mills, 08/13

a through z mart

Needless to say (yet always included), this was a real and unpleasant situation. As any breeding ground for any revolution is. Just ask the French. Ask the decapitated heads of state. Talking heads for sure.

Formerly talking heads. Former cake eaters. Former Louis Fourteen family members. Poseurs of heads of state. Monarch butterflies. Holders of the key to what was espoused as the public vault. Which may have been public once (when that was, nobody could remember), but was consigned to private yard sale.

Selling back the very country the people could barely afford, yet paid for through the teeth.

Selling back the very ocean of blood sweat and tears that has no name.

calm b4 may

oakland ave. by katya.

a through z mart breaks the l-a-w (aka not news)

The weak-assed ones were defined as such and, as such, no longer got props. They lost a far majority of respect by being strong enough to put on paper caps and take orders for the man behind cash registers everywhere. The alternatives were just as sickening or worse. This kind of humbling and self-sacrifice was somehow an essential, in that book no one wanted to read, character, for dummies. Meanwhile, the ritual of the revolution was somewhere in its cycle, maybe at that place where highlanders following mountain streams to low lying rivers to some sea or another. Wherever walmart has been dumping their refuse these days. Ritual. Fated yet full of vitality despite knowing its own end. What lies between commence and commencement. Vitality secondary to some projectory toward greater levels of intoxication, tapering off at an equal or greater pace, like a gyre inverted then sizzled ala redux tragique.

The process was ugly, Processed. And on an eternal loop as it were. as it were. as it were. as it were… etc. Ad infinitum. Or until the end of the human race. Until the end of the human race. The end of the human race. End of the human race. Of the human race. The human race. Human race. Race. Ace. Ce. e. . Goddess forbade any such hold over court by any boring ass martial law enforcement or military tribunal or rent-a-cop or hired gun or private security firm officer or guy advertising on craigslist for cheapo who comes and parks around the corner in a trashed old volkswagen rabbit that has been converted from diesel to vegetable oil consumption.

The process had to play out in its violent natural way. In lieu of real thoughtful seat of government (which was inconceivable) they had the bodies there surrounding  the weak ass regime, monarch, princess, witch, or whomever abused power in the most efficient aka surreptitious manner. And the bodies en masse created a traffic jam for the movement of any sane central artery of honest-to-goodness wisdom, and charged an entrance fee to their circus. And trolled front street in black leather assless chaps because the bubble goose caboose needed breathing room, heya!  They carried alot of weight, in that ass. Trolling for friends or people who would be attracted to bling and unscrupulously do the moth to a flame thing with a smile until they got the back hand or the headbutt or the credit ran dry. Trolling for increasing levels of chemicals introduced to the bloodstream, a fine how do you do!   (t.b.c)

by Katya Mills, 2013