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.
baseball cap on
backwards
tomboy
bad news
the original
skinny
acidwash
jeans
tore up old
self. like usual
a taller you
a bad hair day
no bra. ya
wool cap
spinning around a
middle
finger
scratcher bingo by
a switchblade
gettin’ high
wow
twenty ten
just look at us
then
the madness
the sadness
followed us
haunted us
still i long to
remember
the way you
touched me
gave me
chills
weight of an eighty
impala beneath us
reading our poems
aloud and again
the fortune of
finding a
friend
oh why
oh why
did it all
have to
end
katya mills
this morning i walked out on the porch and watched the sky turn a lighter blue. i hope these morning skies in america never become full with drones. i hope to hold this book that has been in my head and on my screen for so long, in my hands. i have momentum and a routine. i am seeing an organic whole. my challenge right now is how to properly end this. remember. the guiding principle in the universe, god or what you believe, is a clashing and mixture of forces; tragedies and wonders exist simultaneously. a book is a life, created by a life, reflective of a life, and may be loved or hated when read. the poorest anyone could be on the final page, is when they got no feelings at all.
i scrapped a large wordcount toward the end of my novel-in-progress this morning. it was related to a fighting scene which turned out interminable, and a bore. if i am bored by it, certainly you would be, too. one of the central characters whom was going to die has been saved, as i mentioned in previous posts, however it looks as if somebody will die, after all. arrangements will be made today, and the ceremony will be held inside my skull, first floor: suite # medulla oblongota.
rain was licking the drainpipes and teasing the window glass like a young film noir star throwing shade ona honeymoon killing spree in 1953. the screen was silver and we polished it, too. me and you. maybe we’re nobody. in the outskirts of a small city, you gave me midtown Manhattan, 1922. I felt like someone whose been kissed on both cheeks. enough of the valley. we went for Sierras. the high of high peaks.
