edge ina pool
taken from the scene
inaccessible to all
touched by witch
edge ina pool
i said what
the cat killed
the sprinklers wave
i don’t really know
the bird killed
now how about
the fingers crossed
toes and the
had to laugh
having heard just one
third of the
you gave me
you said what
i heard now
I will never forget
the day i got
a five year sentence
it took me
to read the sucker
Katya Mills 07/13 @ katyamills.com
Some things are clearer than others. Some things are in plain sight. Like what you see is what you get. Anyone can tell. This is supposed to be reassuring. Comforting. In line with expectations. Falls into place with minimal redirection like the perfect tetris puzzle piece in some overriding hierarchical system of perfectly aligned personal judgment. For people who are not cases, this may be so. I would not know. Cause I am a case. I may not look like a case. but I assure you — I am. But it’s not until we converse, that most people realize I must be a case. And most people, by most people’s definition, are right. By majority. By simple numbers. The honorable cultural ritual of putting our collective trust in (apparently honest) numbers. The message is: numbers don’t lie. And the message is not under scrutiny.
So here I am. The tetris shape that ruined your reach for the high score. The tropical butterfly that swims like a catfish and cannot be pinned down. Because there’s no space created by most people for me. It can be exhausting. For you and for me. Having to reinvent the wheel everytime I walk in the room. Most people choose not to reinvent the wheel. They like the wheel. I like the wheel, too. My bicycle is my chosen form of primary transportation. A fan is my chosen conditioning of air. A disc is still my chosen form of music and video, when I choose accompaniment in the entertainment system to which I am inextricably impaled. But still, I would have it no other way. This is the life for me. This is the case. ME. I am a case in case you forgot. I am a case, in case we need intrigue. Mystery. Refreshments.
I am a known entity, though I cannot be quantified. Friends? They know. Family? they know. Me? I knew me all along. But apparently for the new ones whose paths cross mine, I am more or less than meets the eye. I am other than meets the eye. Some sadly decide less. Others wait for more. I can tell by the reaction for sure. But I know I am a case. I refuse to define what i mean by that. I let you draw your own definition. This is part of what makes me a case. I can tell you what I am not. I am not whom the eye thinks or thought it was acquainting itself with. If an eye can make acquaintance. An eye that makes an acquaintance, strikes me as superficial at best.
A serious case. I could be problematic. A serious case, with a sense of humor up my sleeve. I might cause you trouble. Making little sense. But a little sense can go a long distance. Like miles, in the breakdown lane or bust. I might shake you down or shake you up. On the wing of a plane. A twilight zone illusion. Nervous breakdown. Someone’s idea of a tragic conclusion. I may not have limits, borders, or definition. Maybe I am jello. Or maybe just lucky. On strike. Out of work. Lucky gone happy. Carbon dioxide up my nose. Fruit roll up gone wrappy. Carbon monoxide up my nose. In a sleeveless, formless formal dress. In ripped jeans with a warrant out for my arrest. Steel eyes with steel toes and a belly full of steel oats. Around the neck, a mink stole. A faux mink stole. On the head, a sable pelt. A faux sable pelt. The real sables were set free. In gorky park. In my imagination and maybe yours. Keep-it-real minks and sables, together on world tours. Evasive. Direct. A girl with nothing to hide. A true case. Come on! Can’t you see? It’s written. On my blogs. On my face. I am undefinable. A case!
Ya, i’m a case alright… i am most certainly a case ! Why else would Mr. Mason beat Lieutenant Tragg to the punch? Lieutenant Tragg had cased the place. He was less than a hundred yards from my door, had just parked his car. Less than a minute from knocking on my door, Tragg. When Mason, esq. come to my door and tell me, with a document in his hands and a wonderfully reassuring look in his eyes i could just bury my heart in! Miss Mills? I want you to look this over and sign here, quickly. Don’t answer any questions and do exactly as i say. And don’t worry, Miss Mills. Everything will be okay… there was a pause as I came back, renaissanced. Landed in Sacramento, of all places! In Midtown! Seeing traces. Visions of my past. Nightmares of Oakland. Nights on the street. Days that became nights. Nowhere to turn. Nowhere to write. I can handle the nightmares. The ptsd meds? I dropped them. They lowered my blood pressure, which was contrary to my opinion. Smoking cigarrettes once again. Marlboro black menthol hundreds! Wow, what a case. Not even Newports can replace. Woke up on the right side of a hideaway bed in a salvation army thrift couch. And this is what i wrote.
– Katya W. Mills June 2013 http://www.katyamills.com a true case
Creative Commons licensed, please respect my words
This is dedicated to the eighteenth bitch i met
by Katya W Mills
Her props preceded her. She was basically dictated over by her fucking props. No joke. I will bite your beats! she announced to the world. She came into the world as truth, got spat out as fiction. HTML underlay all her diction.
Wait, let’s react more slowly, like formation of rust after a rainfall. Slow down our pace. Curb all our progress. That bitch was on fire, like ice. Well, not that fucking hot even. Breakneck Banana slug pace. Break out your fuckin’ mace. Spray her like you mean it! Her accessories are a tugboat and some backup singers rockin’ granite over her lip-synch. Her shows are perfomed on skates, in a skating rink. She’s on thin ice and she knows it. Her toe socks are counterfeit.
There’s such thing as a deadline, bitch. Uncross your buns and feel your tits. You need a media moment or your history. A none hit wonder if you’re lucky. Zero airplay. Audience captive. Held up like hairspray. You’re as close to urban as Truckee. Census 2010 was sixteen thousand, like the crowd you hold hostage. When you open up shows like sardines, canned and caustic.
Every night they get xuded just to feel numb, you’re semi-entourage. Wasted on air guitar broomsticks copped from somebody’s garage. Just to feel numb. You’re shows are best absorbed best by the deaf, blind and dumb.