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

worlds

a great pond formed at the point 

there where they gathered for tales

had been told. all had gone quiet 

the fireflies formulating a slow beat of light

the pond dried up all its ink seeped into 

the paper earth. another word another 

world would never be  

#katyamills

world without words

you will never add up
admonished the numbers

the letters formed into soft
words oh. ok. sorry and if you
say so

you must be calculating
to help us. precise.
do we have to spell
it out?

the letters went silent. they drafted
a non compete clause but the
numbers they just multiplied out
toward infinity

the letters they felt
useless. abandoned

then a question arose
how will we communicate
without us?

the numbers stopped
at a loss for
words

they.i.touch.carbon.letters

we put our letters in a metal box and in the 20th century it was the number one way to communicate in a nonverbal, confidential and intimate fashion. it was only 2020 and the post office and the library and the climate were endangered. i found all my documents. i looked them over and shredded them. i used the shreds for a nest for my endangered species. i am defiant. i will protect them. you cannot locate me in my inbox. my inbox may be convenient but it’s no fun. driving my car helps me calm down, despite a history of accidents, but i may worry about my carbon footprint. you cannot touch anyone anymore in a carefree spirit. you must ask for permission. personal space comes at a high premium. we are self-isolating with our phones. our tablets. our laptops. our desktops. pretty soon we won’t be talking anymore, and the word friends will be incomprehensible.  they will be singular. i will be plural. will we ever know a love like that, again?

may (sometime) 4

All I own I cleaned and placed in boxes, and may leave in boxes, crowding the walls around the central space. There lies my great wooden desk, small but solid, I take with me wherever I go. All the way back to 1998. There lies my intention to write my poetry, my prose, my words, my books. The tv got the last of invitations. I may not open the door. When I die someone oughta cut my desk down and bury me in it. Together may we be — repurposed.