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.

yesk

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 katyamills.com

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the run on

The run on sentence ran on and on and on and on…

The need to stop was critical. The need to stop and get quiet. The day was about to dawn. Business. Business was about to go boom. Which only, which only accelerated the need. Things would naturally accelerate, after dawn. Needs and things.

Dawn was the flavor of the day.

The day, about to dawn.

It was dawn.

The run on sentence ran on. From the night before, when she started running. Not away or toward, just on. All night long, before the dawn. Despite any desire to the contrary, the sentence ran on.

Still, the need to stop was mission critical.

The need to stop, still, at dawn.

An objective was percolating. Percolating @ dawn. What with the coffeepots, and all over the place… Kettles straight-up whistling out in so many ways, varying by the size and material of the pot. Diverse kinda whistling, all over the place.

Churning out the boiling blood of the city.

Business was about to go boom. The subject, become object. An exciting time, indeed. For some. For some this was exciting. Others slept right through it. All the way to the bell of the stock exchange, which maybe woke them violently. Or maybe not.

The subject became the object. For only a while. Because the need to stop was critical. Bookends were helpful, in stopping things, before and after the boom. Before and after all business went boom.

Author unknown. Photo by Katya. 2012.

Photo by Katya. ‘Tag off of Telegraph. Uptown. 2012.’

The run on sentence ran on and on. And on…

Before and after business. Before and after dawn. Before and after the whistles and bells. Before and after the dance of subject, with object.

Before and after, before and after.

Always percolating and predicated

by nothing.

the case of the case

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

The 18th bitch i met

This is dedicated to the eighteenth bitch i met

by Katya W Mills

katyamills.com

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.

devolver (foo+l=fool, -ii)

Once, a long time ago, before they devolved her

The land was a greater part peace and understanding. None of that hippy crap. I am talking about true serenity. Joyfulness. Free giving like freeware and wifi hotspots with open architectures are today. You understand. That which inevitably will be lost to us. Freedom seems to inevitably cost us. At least 364 days a year.

Back then, things were relatively pagan, without so much rules and laws. Life was muddy, dirty, but somehow the wear and tear of life made us clear. The scuff on the cuff of life, purified us. And she was in our hearts then.  She was sacrosanct. For a single day of the year, sometimes, usually a full lunar eclipse, or a blue moon perhaps, but for one single day we experienced true and wondrous freedom. I do not know how to describe it. I was feeling it in the eastern lands where i lived. St Petersburg, the heart of the greater lands before Moscow became preeminent. St Petersburg is where her heart resided.  The waves of her energy lapped gently into surrounding lands. Washed over the entire surface of the earth, they say.

The truth is this. The paradigm fell into a chasm. They scattered our world with insensitive tough brush strokes, taught us to live violently. Gave us guns. We dreamed of a world we once had. We dreamed of her. She receded from our realities.  Physical annihilation became just the usual. Just a few stiff drinks and dismembering words, before we flew out on our vacations. Participate or be outcast. The truisms became  internalized. Context became irrelevant.

I became secretive. I kept her to myself. She was my life. She fed my spirit. How could i dissolve her? She was generous with me. Gentle with me. Why would i devolve her? What they came to understand, became universally accepted. What had never been our truth, became a given.

So I became jaded. I became angry. I left my community and held vigils for her. In her memory. They had resigned her to the grave, but she would never die in my heart. I practiced great and focused mindfulness in order to calm myself and combat the confusion in my head. They called my kind witches and heretics and demons. They outcast us. We were remanded to the night, when all were unconscious.

History was being rewritten, right before my eyes. I was so sad and disappointed. At times my only sustenance was a candle and my cards, and the sweet music in my head. My friends had been taken and bound by vines. I cannot speak further of the atrocities then committed. My mind was confused. My heart was subdued.

Every night in my prayers, i efforted to ask her for all hatred to be lifted off my heart. I prayed for my community. Yes. The reignition of the flame of our hearts would be a tedious and slow process that would take generations. I knew. I knew like i know now, that each of us would be reborn (not in a born again christian way).  One ray of california light at a time. only some lucky days could i walk with the divine. today was one.