Sunday, 30 March 2014

concrete black and blue

concrete black
concrete blue
i scraped my knee
lost my shoe

while skate
boarding streets
to find you

now i'm scanning
the sidewalk
for glass

concrete blue
concrete black
my sister
she got
my back

young man
on a stoop
smoking rolly
in the loop
saw my blood
drawn down
to the ankle

he looked at me
laughed
and inhaled

concrete black
concrete blue
i am lost
what to do?
out here in our red
white and
blue

blasted
between high rises
by fragrant deli
monoxide winds and
the sins of
a glowering
sun

her colors
so real
the city
her sounds
wraps me
warm in
her tresses and
locks

i'm braided and tied
at the end

concrete black
concrete blue
by god
my angels
and you

may i find
my way
concrete black
through the streets
and back

the pained eyes
behind a shake
and fries
keep me honest
sincere
concrete blue
made true

and you
and by you
my life is full
life is filled
replete with my fate
accompli

lost i was
found
gave my blood
to the ground
looked up
came around to
alive

in this urban
chiaroscuro
delight

exhaling her sounds
inhaling the heat
shorn of my shoes

concrete black
concrete blue
descended
into
the mouth
of the subway
on the balls of
my feet

back to you

Saturday, 29 March 2014

horror flashes (insequential)

Asleep in bed
i heard a sound
no one else
around...

butterfly wings 4 lashes
raised my beating
head

seeing things
and images
rolled over
from my dreams
spilling
amber plasticine

tall summer
iced tea mom once
brought with lemons
knockin' around
in summer sun in
cubes

new Hampshire forest lake
spill over this lonesome
darkened
ache

my eyes rounded egg white
searched the room
my head suspended
by butterflies beating
heart below

all was left of fire
ashes
    and
no one else
around

wish 4 switchblade
out of
reach
too scared
2 scared for speech

the room
was dark
the shadows
blue

i thought of me
i thought of you

torn material hanging off
a fragment of my mind
open window wide
wide open edge
of darkness heart
of fight or
flight

no one else
around

Friday, 28 March 2014

identity theft

Home. eleven hundred hours
symphonic birds.
eleven thousand drops of local rain.
my blood stains the inside of my skin.

my fingerprint I print it.
i scan it into my computer.
i post it, like a fool.
it got reshares. links.
i get plussed i get
non-plussed.

cross my heart i
hope to live. 

Someone stole my identity. how could they?
Someone stole my identity. who am I?
My fingerprint pressed into glass. my labyrinth
I cannot translate myself to me. must learn braille.

I get down on my knees
and pray but who am I
praying I know who I am
praying to and toward 
dear God!

Someone stole my identity.
They will get caught and go to jail.
With my identity.
That's me! In jail? Oh no!
I am innocent!
I swear!


The kindred spirits call.
Jim Morrison walks on down
the hall. He sees me at the end, or
I see him but who am I?
some consumer of the doors
my ego falls four floors.


Work.
I work it, girl.
I go, girl, go girl. who am i?

am i worth my weight in
gold I feel so
old I know I am too
young to feel so old.

Kurt Cobain has a shotgun in his mouth.
toe searches for the trigger.
a hooded bone, numb and blunted, searching for a way out.

Don't do it!
Here we are now.
Entertain us.

Courtney Hole fell in one.

Pablo Escobar went down fighting.
They named a chocolate bar after him.
Called it esss-co-bar.
It was made from 50% cacao.
50% co-cai-een.

Without yourself, you can do anything with
you. You can shoot speedballs in your arms and legs,
and between your toes.
Hooded bones. Groping for a trigger.
Blind in the alleyways of life.
Searching for a way out.
Going down fighting.

Fallen into holes.
Dancing poles.
Gone down.
Fighting.
Toes.

Someone stole my identity.
It took five years to get it back.
Many letters to the bank.
Trying to restore my credit.
Actor out on loan.
To the head. Cellular phone.
Lick the bone.
Clean.

Fingerprinted.
Clean.

Ready to work. again.
eleven hundred hours
symphonic birds. blood stains.
it was me. again.
someone stole my identity.
eleven thousand drops of local rain
someone stole my identity...

it was me

Poems by Kristy Rulebreaker: The zone of fear

Poems by Kristy Rulebreaker: The zone of fear

Thursday, 27 March 2014

thought life possession montage

Think of what we could have!
he thought with his eraser
our blood all pooled together
finally!

erasing his sketch lead
with a frenzy
all touching!
leaving little bits
of processed rubber
in flecks on paper
reunification!
rubbed to death
finally!

there she goes
washing her hands again
the radio plays Coltrane quintet
someone on the pedal
brace upon the fret
air billowing cheeks
jazz circus
freaks

spring sun showers them like rain
summer fun they
disdain

sitting inside
needing to hide
lacking
needing to name
all alone together
having to judge
god forgotten
all processed out
like seven eleven sandwiches
mystery meat on rye

thinking all the while
are we dead
did we die?
then back to the sketch
back to the eraser the hand washing
routine on the edge of a
razor

thought progression
composed of thoughts
kitchen sink
porcelain
water marks

back to getting lead out
on paper
and thought life
possession

Trane on tenor sax
thought life
progression

back to being dead
under skin
composed of thoughts
only wax

Tuesday, 25 March 2014

soft so sweet

These words may not escape
the page to tell of human suffer age

the type set down
conformed
now weighs
the anchor of the mind
for days

who knows what falls
what follows
next

in line the sheeps keep ewes
in check

before E the eye
of goddess
rest
before you the Q
only the best

four times the power
of the sun
four times
the grave's recedent
depth

eight days a week
or more
the images drop the
feelings pour

out on to some blank lonely
space some
cloud banked in sky's silk
blue lace

would the words
simply obey
would they scream so loud

toward May

the spring she dips our fields
in green the asphalt falls
beneath the scene

i love this so the path unseen
the fleecing of all thoughts to
clean

i love you long like rivers
run i love you to the set of sun

let us lie together
 feel the heat
and kiss so tender
soft so sweet

Monday, 24 March 2014

the light of future's present past

the quality of light
in the middle of the night
something hard to see
a candle dance
maybe


the lux
the quality
in the middle of the day
maybe less remarkable
than the light at night
in may

i once saw northern lights
purple green and blue
i once saw you
in my life
you and me and
me and you

the quality of sunshine
against a dark and dangerous sky
is just the kinda thing i need
so real so true
like you

the quality of lightless day
imprisoned in the mind
when all the world is simply shit
all the world
and mine

the quality of coming through
a really painful time
a midnight blue
an abstract lime

this is the quality
falls between us
still
i cannot help
loving you

i love the light
in darkness cast
the light of future's
present past

the eye of lighthouse
three sixty round and down below
the waves besmashed
down and round
ago

i see reflections
of the rocky rolling ocean spray
all day in lemon
squeeze

when contemplating all i've loved
and some who
gone away

i ask your hand
across dark land
across dark land with me

i ask your hand
across dark land
across dark land and sea

before the light diminish
quick!
before the light?
i ask of you

come with me now
come
please

Wednesday, 19 March 2014

short wave breaks, new coke era - ii )

She was strange
with her transistor radio
melting into spaces
in a whirlwind
white noise
 purr

     a lightning rod
    a conduit
she was

selfless by design
addicted to flannel
IQ unknown. a prodigy on
piano

the sound
of sound colliding

what would we do?
death of the transistor radio
boo. hoo

she shook the radio gently
turned the dial shook the static
out her hair

for a moment was she
colloquially. informal
mad mixed with strange and static
electricity. far from normal

she arched her back
crossed her legs
envisioned whole
golden hard-boiled eggs
exploded to the
           to the
       to the

to the
   sound
of sound colliding

source energy fields
filled the gaps in her spine

death of the
transistor radio

short wave break beats
resonate through her
so slow you could catch it
if you just stood still. there
stood still. there
still. there

we would. there
we did. there

oceans of sound = places she reside
with flora and fauna
she washes in on the tide

she's strange
hard to get to know
you must rearrange
to attune with her
so go!

reconfigure your cortex
two firewalls down!
dive into her transistor
ocean of sound!

you may touch into her
if she looks to be found

often hiding in shade
with the lights drawn blue
where her heart and
her secrets lie in wait
for you

(just up the dial
from you know who)

guess what?
she is yours
the breath of god
out her pores
into yours

you are hers
she is yours
guess what?
i am yours

you are mine
i am hers
she is yours
all the hours
time is fine
you are mine
venus furs
world tours
you are mine
i am yours

Monday, 17 March 2014

praying to god on a curb

i must get up
pull this aching forty
and a single
year and a single
month and a couple rocky days
bashing my peace
of mind into jagged
images
      colors
         sounds
             feelings

shine, shine
into the madness of march!
then contract
into its ides

the idle of a two thousand model
corvette i can taste
the sound
yum

the american made
heartbeat
rumbles

all my infinite
imprint exhales into exhaust

skipping and scotch
hopping 2 well-won
thread bare
motor oil cycle of
give into
gravity

fuck my broken down
Volkswagen Gone
                   To
                  Indigo

i can taste her colors
turning chrome somewhere
blue

along with me
synchronized
behind my blue green
algae eyes

turning my wallet inside out
as i shell out atleast all
of my hard-earned money
waiting

stranded in Alameda
praying to god
on a curb

turning me around
myself until i
let go

talking up strangers
on a triple shot latte
experiential trip

unpack me
and fuck my
fear
  like so

coffeehouse puffs my sails
creams my soul
leaving memorable waves
comet tails

Trina she's a chemist
waiting 4 a bus
tells me where cortisol derives
tumbling naturopathic gymnastics
makes me smile
in an artifice of
world

then i expand again
in your expansiveness
engine rumbles and fires up

then i gotta go
contract for safety
with some devil preserving
lifeless serving
portioned out
cultural misfire

please will you cosign
my BS? anyone asks
be subservient to my march
madness? tags of hash

####no takers
##no fakers

we push out on guatemalan
fumes in hopeful
works of faith
you and me
god makes
three

do not dare resist
the persistent
nature

of you

Thursday, 13 March 2014

short wave breaks. new coke era

She was in her late twenties, mid-range soprano.
Schooled and well-versed, she loved banging on piano.
All her life, the others, they considered her strange.
Some watched from a distance, kept perfectly estranged.
Others saw potential in her and invited her over.
They had about as much hope locating her, as a four-leaf clover.
She could not sit still.
Manifested temporal displacements.
Riding the short wave on transistor radio.
In basements.

You're outdated!
cried her little sister, Penelope.
She just smiled back, from behind her crazy straw
planted in a New Coke,
which got old.
You're so 1980!
Penelope shouted.
She knew it was true, and started to laugh.
Hysterically.
The old new coke carbonation ran up the passage to her nose.
Penelope pouted.
This was not the desired effect.
She liked to get under Penelope's nerves,
press her buttons - CNS.
She took pharmaceutical Adderal.
It relieved her from stress.

Wednesday, 12 March 2014

retrospectral disinclination

There is nothing like a retrospective to take you out of time
Where do we go, when we go back?
I wanna know, where do we go?
If I leave this place too long,
can I still come back?

Or will I become some
retrospectral
memory of
me

Some sorry pseudo self
and signing out
apocryphally yours

I think
I will
stay

thank you very much
for the invitation
into collective checking out


like Robert Frost
the road less traveled
this moment
is my route

Monday, 10 March 2014

love potion no. two thousand seven hundred sixty two dot infinity

I was in the laboratory, minding my own business and yours, when all of a sudden that eureka moment came hurtling from my mind to earth, half-burning up in its double wide flavor, five-lane atmosphere pressure pull. I pounced immediately upon it, before it could scurry away into the recesses of some famous French cave whose drawings of stick figure animals shall be preserved to the end of human time only. I cupped my mind around it like a cat claw trap upon a squeakmouse.

At this point in time, the object which I was efforting to make subject and otherwise swallow whole into my personal shadow and light universe, made itself partially known to me. Thinking (yes, with a mind of its own) I might actually set it free by so doing. Clearly its thinker was broken! All the better for my predatory success.

In my mind's ledger, I jotted down the new revelation, and got this far.... love potion no. two thousand something....damn! Je ne sais quoi (I know not what).

A large question mark took form in a gasping vexation of breath out my pores. My entire organism shook. This created just enough room for the object, not yet become subject or subjected to my personal universe of great darkness and fragmented light, to slide into a crack in the unwaxed and unpolished (and rather rough from wear) mahogany floors which had suffered the weight of me for one too many months in this place, my self-described laboratory. All I felt (other than insatiably unanswered in pursuit of my less than scientific inquiry) was an increase in space beneath my mental tendrils, which were left groping about like a suddenly blind sea anemona in atrophic waters, abandoned for good by an ungrateful school of single file clown fish with genetically mutated pioneering tendencies.

My object, my dear sweet eureka, escaped my grasp!
Fuck no! I cried, reducing my own equation to expletive tears.
I dropped to my knees, then fell to the floor and my whole body just collapsed like a dying star right there in my personal petrie dish microcosm.

Then, after a few horrendous moments of breathless wonder...something magnificent happened! That which I had been pulling and pushing and groping and gnashing my teeth to capture and consume with the bully gravitas of a desperate Putin in Ukraine... suddenly unfolded itself to my surrendered spirit, like the most beautiful of flowers set free in the sun!

Love potion no. two thousand
seven hundred
sixty two
(dot)
infinity

Saturday, 8 March 2014

uncover

Uncover your heart
one thousand words
one day

ascertain a movement
beneath the jabbering
fear

when all is really silent
a most delectable sound
to hear

stop the social media
for one minute
every hour

drop your fuckin cell phone
from atop the cell phone
tower

pull the plug
for life!

a blackout on this city

the darkest night
one moment

have faith!
have trust!

the eyes adjust

Wednesday, 5 March 2014

years of certain darkness

In the eyes of angels
blackpool wells
swallow the
world

years of certain darkness
marked us all
for life

years of sullen sadness
lost another
smile

archived
file

years of watching death
swiftly steal the
stage

another leading man
embroiled in his
rage

another leading lady
frozen by her
fear

years of certain darkness
they really ran
their course

right here in sunny
California
our day of perpetual
anhedonia

dis of ease and
ability

turned angels
into devils
dying

angels into
devils into
angels back
again

into angels
fallen angels

into angels
once again

Saturday, 1 March 2014

'Less Than Zero' - Book Review by K

LESS THAN ZERO
by Bret Easton Ellis
BOOK REVIEW by Katya Mills 02/14

Step into the shoes of a lovable loser, a young guy who clearly has talent and intelligence handed to him (economically, if not genetically) but no proper channel for it. He's still got time, you think, he's in college. 

I enjoyed seeing Los Angeles through the eyes of the protagonist. Because he is neither for nor against his world, he is more like a material witness to a cultural crime in progress. That crime being the assault upon all human goodness and innocence. Wow. And he keeps a sense of humor about it, until about two thirds of the way through, after which it became less of an ambulance chase intrigue. 

You begin to feel uneasy, as though it's no longer culture that needs a shot of loving kind compassion in the arm, but you; you might be the one needing resuscitation. Because it certainly feels closer to nonfiction than fiction. And probably is a fusion of the two, put together by a master chef (Mr. Easton-Ellis) at an open kitchen with an array of knives at his disposal. Oh, and meat grinders. And the ambient sound of fucking, dying and other counterculture fare. Squirt some lemon in the heart for extra-sensory pain.

I love the cover of the old paperback copy I finally bought at a used bookstore here in Sacramento, with the proceeds of the single copy of my own novel I sold there...and some additional cash of course (I'm not a known entity, yet). It is a cream-color image of LA skyline fading out in the smog. And the photo on the back of the author has him in prepschool attire as a young man, probably not unlike his protagonist and perhaps the same? This is an unauthorized biographical query. And I saw the photo was taken by a one Miss Quintana Roo, who, for those who don't now, was the only daughter of the great essayist Joan Didion (also from Sacramento). Sadly, the past tense refers not to mom but to daughter, for Quintana Roo passed away young after a brief illness. 

I mention all this to support my intuition that this novel is a bit nonfiction. Because we live in a world that is quite used to seeing stars rise and fall, and quite accustomed to scenes (in LA or otherwise) like Phil Hoffman at the peak of his career and head of a young and bright family, blue with a needle full of drug cocktail still stuck in his arm, 23 years afer he supposedly 'got it'. Meaning recovery. This novel is the perfect example of how, recovered or not, we all are having to keep a close eye on ourselves in the context of a culture that could parade us out one day on theatrical accolades, and leave us stewing in our own celebrity nihilism the next, so forlorn and in such godless disbelief as to chance the end of everything so fine and hopeful. 

Rest in Peace to all. I have compassion for all of us. This book furthers my compassion for Los Angelans and US Americans and global citizens, to think that even in the refuge of the States (not a gutted-by-war kind of GPS, compared to Kiev or even parts of London) a city could engender such hatred and violence. Kids taking pictures of eachother in front of corpses, or gangbanging, or self-gangbanging. Brutal anarchy and madness in old Hollywood's new money bling. 


I really hated the falling apart of it all toward the end, because the sense of humor dried up. I prefer to laugh like I was throughout the first hundred pages. Which is just another reason why I charge this book as a likely nonfiction masquerading as fiction. Because if it was fiction, it could have ended with a laugh, not a cry. 

And if it was nonfiction, it probably would never hit the shelves in Mr. Easton Ellis' lifetime, so he wouldn't be the chillaxed man of intrigue that he is today. He might look more like William Burroughs in Drugstore Cowboy. Read this book. It's great. Then read mine, because it's a parallel kinda process, taking place in Chicago. But mine really is FICTION!


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