fabrique

in the street one day
years after the war

a soundless middle ground
cast solid between them
did resound

would we ever
refabricate and share our
common scars

or simply freeze
to death

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untitled

I could feel my anxiety in my body, in my blood, and I no longer fought to escape it. I focused on it and understood it to be energy and that it could be useful to me rather than a hindrance. The room was full of people and soon it would be my turn to speak. I stayed calm and receptive to the growing spirit in me which sought release. I asked my heart what it knew, and told it to my associates. The day would be long and arduous. A cat befriended me. When I got home I made myself a salad and watched Dr. Zhivago. The movie was full of trains and war and winter and romance. People were losing their homes, all in the name of the working man. The doctor was a poet and recognized by a soldier, who told him his work was no longer meaningful, that the time of shared personal intimacies was over. I felt the sting. I came to tears. War is terrible and can make hopeless fools of us all. But stay honest and keep about your work, and you will have life eternal.

reds

The cold war got heated
With a handshake betrayed
Arms gathered at the borders
All the plans waylaid

You were at Starbux
Unaware of it all
Digital handshake
Frappucino on-call

I wondered was it all
Just a fragment of the mind
Until a drone fragged us
Damn what a sign

people work better when driven (insane) -iv)

No, don’t be scared. Just pay attention, brush your hair out your eyes. Sit up straight. This is the haircut we have been waiting to get you, I mean, the cut you wanted. Listen to your heartbeat for a minute… see? Just talkin’ about it turns us on. Everything changes. You are not who you thought you were. You have been touched! You can’t tell? That’s just because you’re still waking up. Come on, we can urge it on, ourselves! Purchase that fresh electroshock device on tv. DIY brain fry.  Sanctioned by many, legal in a half dozen states, yours included! Just send that self-addressed, self-licked envelope to the Pharmaceutical Brain, Newark, New Jersey. If you postmarked it yesterday, we will send you a bunch more. Paid On Delivery. That’s if the FDA doesn’t intercept it, on its way from our factory on Better Buy Island, never heard of it? A landfill we filled off the west coast of Mexico. Not anywhere near the other one, Narco Domingo.

Wait, if your’e a superuser you can skip all that nonsense! Download the mobile app on your rooted phone. Make sure you pay some dude on craigslist a couple of bucks to root it. Or your favorite tech-savvy son or daughter, of a friend of a friend. Or anyone on a subway under 40 can do it. Probably before you reach your stop. Go ahead! You can super-use someone. It’s not against the law! They might even decide not to bitchslap you with their skateboard. Kids these days. So likable. So unlovable. Figures. Their mentors were people like me, genXers. We taught them well. Everything they haven’t learned from that show I(Almost) got away with it. Props to the discovery channel and subterranean skies. Thanks to the exorbitant cost society pays, to distribute unprofitable PR department lies.

Anyway, about that haircut, the perm. The DIY brain fry, I mean. You just have to agree to the terms. You don’t have to read them, silly. Touch your touchscreen. Swype the bitch. Come on, now, let what’s left of your imagination run wild. Anything goes! Twinkies and Michael Jordan just came out of retirement. Well, Twinkies did. MJ must be next. They didn’t go nowhere. Just waited for folks to miss them enough. Peek-a-boo! We missed you. Okay okay! Yes, I will do it, stop begging. I shouldn’t have told you my age, I suppose. Just be aware, I have boundaries these days. Don’t think I will troubleshoot right out of my clothes.  Story of my life. But I have started a new chapter. Okay, now listen, take your android and bump mine, just do what I say. Otherwise this download’s gonna take you all day. Hey, step back! I don’t need to smell your breath. Just the phones will touch, that’s as close as we’ll get… and Boom! FEEL IT?!? the shock? Works off the same principle as static electricity, I suppose. I’m not a scientist, exactly, not at all. I met a few of them, though, in Evanston sub-basement tech halls.

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katya (blue#8)

So now you got you’re app on this icon on your homescreen. 4 whenever you cannot see straight. Hair in your eyes, resentments and lies. Commuting home, next to thighs, legs and thighs. Google it, if you want, there’s no user manual. All i know is this beats your average triple shot machiatto. Here take this gravity brush. Your hair is standing up. Won’t do for the interview. And welcome, sweetie, welcome to the clear full of light. You heard me. I can be trusted. Pro Bono. All right? The clear full of light. Three i-sheets to the wind? Just touch your pretty icon, and then think of me, or someone sweet. Your i-sheets will be reconciled. Virtually, in a moment. Better than a half-litre dry gin, to dissipate a heavy London fog.

I know it seems like some kind of fancy new perversion of reality. But reality and virtual, makes some sweet virtuality. To be driven. To tears. Motivated. No fears. Insane, but not crazy. What we would pay for such a fresh way of being? And yet, I hasten to say – we give it all away!  The only thing to do. The only way to be. No impediment. Not anymore. Not like you. Not like me. About time we insourced our own change wrecking crew. Refashioned our images. Pulled out the memory foam and replace it with goose down. Airbrushed our waterlogged decaying fuckin’ attitudes, man. Photoshopped for body parts, hearts, minds, and soul. Took the noise out. No more or less deviation than extreme. Left the ranks of the thundrous wonderbread, of regimented, swing shift disciples. For the graveyard shift.

A federated gang of the driven insane! The formerly motivated, headhunted, cubicled, well paid soldiers of fortune. The Dr Whos-Who of timestamp travel efficiency. Clocking in and out the central artery. Before and after a series of bypass surgeries. Endless summer construction. Parking our asses irreverently, in the very middle of the street. Former pretenders, talking heads, Wall Street cutouts and stitched material. Whatever. Today we don’t think first. We take our shots through farmers market produce. Filtered water, front and back. No hangover necessary. Please and thank you very much. Long the long stretch of endless paper pushing. Short the short life of rigorous dreaming.

Katya Mills 07/13  katyamills.com

rock out the red and white blues

Wanna really soak  up our red and white blues?

No ifs ands or buts?

Wanna love like you never loved before? Then we gotta take it now, as is!  Shaken and stirred, with cracks in it, explosive in the sky tonight. Even in the dry heat of Sacramento, thirty miles from where our ancestors once rushed for gold, for the freedom wealth bestows. Celebrate the land we have inherited! Ring church bells and show our true colors, all the same.  We gotta locate ourselves on the map, and rock out from the self-referential. Bass heavy; we don’t need no trouble from the treble. Rock out so hard, anyone can hear you.  Poor Canada’s getting rocked tonight on the border. Canada, overtaken with our red and white blues.  Sound waves. And the poor fish on the shelf , in the three touched seas: Atlantic, Pacific, and Gulf of Mexico. The salmon heading home, like we must as well, to the place of our personal and collective birth.

We can celebrate, the same, as those who came before us. We can set the precedent for what is to follow. But it has to be today, the defragmentation. Don’t put it off any longer, if you can. Just do the best you can! Impart upon our children that quality so magical and worshipped overseas, those freedoms people climb over one another and stampede and bum rush our stage for! The mosh pit of American lifestyle will not be subject to litigation! The tangible running up against ourselves is the only way for freedom. It cannot be prosecuted. It cannot be tamed! On the formerly solid now slightly cracked and bruised foundation of capital that got us here. Our foundation keeps us. But of course, it will always have cracks in it, that will be exploited by the earth when it quakes. But American freedoms, like mother nature, are a force beyond any judicial resolution. Not to punk justice. Just to represent what is true, though unfair!

We are the same, but we must honor the truth. There are great divides between us. The division of ethnicities, long since established and still enduring. The feeling we feel when we meet someone we never met, yet feel something deeper than the acquaintance. Something predisposed. Something heavy, yet intangible.  We can only be the same if we honor the truth of our differences. The native Americans, the tribes,  are always separate from us. We are not the same. Our ancestors settled the land in a predominantly violent and unsettling fashion. We cannot forget.  If we want to be free to celebrate what we have in common, we must first come at one another eye to eye, fingerprint to fingerprint. We can only connect from the longitude, the latitude, the experiential essential of confronting the divine at the crossing. Where converge the distinction of free spirits, the generosity of real attitude.

Take your punk out the trunk and display it for one another. Only then can we share our red and white blues. Something wonderful. Something source. Confrontational. Conversational. Electric! Divine. An equal sharp and undying thirst for the wild brand of freedom that pushes all boundaries out to infinity. Limitless freedom.  The kind the flying Wallendas know when they tightrope a quarter mile canyon, sanctioned by the Navajo tribe. This is the pure kind of real, definitely punk, red and white blues, we share. Where we get hot rocked by the us in the USA.

Sure, we will have our differences, we will partition and crack up and wikileak and fissure and branch arterial out to the very capillaries. But the blood returns home venously,  in the veins. Returns home to the heart that we share. The wild heart that risks everything, just to have it all. No borders can stop it. No barbed wire can hold it back. Pumping red white and blues out into the twenty-first, mother-loving, century. Meet you there. In the light. Wearing black. Painting red and blue over white.

Katya W. Mills  katyamills.com 07/13 – Daughter of the American Revolution