Friday 20 December 2013


when these holy days come close, i get vulnerable and sometimes sad. The sadness is nostalgia, looking back on holy days passed. the memories are sacred like the trees cut down by way of culture club celebration.

i try and accept all the killing trees and memories. i do not participate in either anymore. no more pajamafeet sliding around in superhero underoos, no more static electricity shock therapy.

when i face the holy days silently, non-violently, with holy day music and candlelight prayers, visions of sugarplums and books not yet written dancing in my head...

life becomes a wonder... and i become earth's wanderer.

Sunday 15 December 2013

Mental -- the deuce

I had seen about a dozen therapists in twice as many years. They all knew what was wrong with me, and it was different every time. I guess that's what people mean when they say people change. Of course, people usually said that about someone else, not me. I would be wondering why a boy did not want to go out with me anymore? People change. Or why my best friend stopped talking to me when she went off to college, and I was still working graveyard at the White Hen? People change.

So maybe those boys and my best friend were just mental like I was. That's what I liked to tell myself. When I dissociated, I made up all sorts of personalities to keep the rumours alive. The dominatrix would reassure me she had been routinely light spanking my best friend over the holidays, because my best friend was submissive. People change. The angry feminist would tell me how my best friend got married, and that she may as well have had a lobotomy. People change. The priest who took confession from the first guy I fell in love with me, confided in me what he heard in the confessional; the guy was into guys. People change. 

Honestly, I am not sure I believed that people change. I had only to consider myself. My diagnosis always changed, but I stayed that same. So you could argue it was not really me who was changing. Just the labels. A label is stuck to the outside of something, like a nametag, but it does not alter the underlying chemistry of the thing labelled. The mad scientist told me so. And he's never wrong. He performs all sorts of important experiments all the time, just to know stuff.

He spends half the night with me at White Hen, draining whipped cream gas into my lungs. He calls them whippets. Apparently they kill brain cells that should have been dead a long time ago. The kind of cells that made me think the bad thoughts, the same kind of thinking all sorts of minimum wage workers who are mental start to have, when they are working dead end jobs going mental. I'm not even going mental. I already am.

I think I am living proof that people never change. Tonight there's only one can of whipped cream left untapped, in the White Hen. The mad scientist prescribed it to me, to get well. To kill off all those thoughts of what I wanna do to those boys and my best friend, now that they no longer have an excuse for having ditched me the way they did.

Wednesday 11 December 2013

star free

i am
star free
i am
overcast sky

i blacked


i outlandish

her digital


look at me
star free
shot out
the sky

gripping hearts
between my

until they
bleed out
and die

i am
star free



Tuesday 10 December 2013

Pale in comparison

When all has gone to hell, and you wonder where has gone your life, romantic, and think you know its never gonna materialize for ya... try and go deeper. Deeper below the muddy muck, lies firm and solid virgin ground. Always. You cannot see this. The obvious senses fail to sense it. But like any unknown future sweet heart friend, the end of mankind numb and detached from his purpose and climbing the walls of his will, six feet deep in despair, walled in by walmart, targeted by target, entertained to near death, technologically baffled, compulsively obsessed, imaged in selfie stew, face cut by seven blade razors, telemarketed, stuck on stupid, shot at by solar flares, inundated by cell rays, frozen in fear frosting, sucking on substitute sugars, dipped in electromagnetic confection, infected by ad campaigns, propped up by viagra, shuffling whole food aisles, dripping wet with pharmaceuticals, sexting with sextetris puzzle pieces piling up to game over like dome storage war won at auction and amassed in space to the gills....
is not without a certain possibility of the dream girl hidden and ready to strike out hopeful into your cigar-fog atmosphere from the fake cake they rolled out at the fat cat corporate party, pale as the throat of a bullfrog in spring, in comparison.

Monday 9 December 2013

Mental (sister piece)

The sister to this piece is @

I was talking to my therapist. It was a pretty chill converse. Almost like we were friends or something. I kinda started to think of her as my friend, until she diagnosed me crazy. I thought that was really rude, coming from a friend. I let her know. She told me she wasn't my friend. I started to cry. She called me tearful. I had about had it with the labels. But I did not blow up, because at least she was right. I asked her, will I ever get better? She said it was a process. That made me feel worse. I told her she was a rotten therapist. Her affect remained unchanged. I told her she had no feelings. I asked her how does it feel, not to be able to feel? She gave me that Buddha smile. Totally unphased. I was impressed by her robot. I shut up and started listening. I had eyeliner blend into my eye from the crying, and asked for a tissue. She told me get it yourself. Not to be mean, just because (as she had explained a hundred times before) that would be caretaking.

 I stumbled blind around the room for a tissue. I fell out the window. I didn't know it was open. I was wondering how the air-conditioning was so strong that day. Or how they could afford such a skillful window washer. Because the air was so cool, the glass so clear. Before the makeup fell into my cornea. I did not report any of that, because I was supposed to only report my symptoms. Leave all the clutter thoughts up in my attic. I mean head. Well, they came out all right. But not until I landed on my attic, or the ground came up to meet me, after I shook hands with the window. I still could not see. But at least I could think straight. Props to my therapist. Shout outs to the EMTs who came and kept all my blood from running down the sidewalk and away from me.

Sunday 8 December 2013

evolution of an android princess with chromebook know how - i

she was born without a computer chip in her skull
a real retro model homo sapien brain trust child

She enjoyed watching her older brother play
pinball, and the song by the Who about
the you know what.

She learned how to ride a bicycle by falling off one
she felt an exhiliration like no other, on two wheels.
This was all she cared about, all year long, 24/7.

She got tall enough to play pinball.
She found the pressing buttons on the sides
of a coffin sized wheelbarrow without wheels, felt
embarrasing. Primitive. Especially for a girl.

There was talk about personal computers in her
neighborhood, but it all sounded so impersonal.
Her dad would speak about it from behind the spread
of his Wall Street Journal, at breakfast.

She got tired of bicycles and especially climbing hills
she got into watching older kids at the pizza parlours
and skating rinks, playing Galaga and Space Invaders.
Atari was something which her cousins talked about,
involving subsistence-level graphics, tanks, and Pong
which wasn't as good as the real thing.

She started playing the giant video games and enjoyed
them. But there were alot of bullies who bullied her
while she was playing. She would have to stop and
focus on kicking them in the kneecaps. Which was more
fun, anyway.

Nothing happened this year, because the air was filled
with anticipation.

PAC-MAN and the personal computer.
Life would never be the same...

to be continued

Friday 6 December 2013

Girl for xbox

All the queen's verses
All the king's zen
Reconciled them
In bed @
Half past ten

The goldfish
Turned silver

The prince gave his xbox
To the pauper
Why No one knows

Not even
The little match girl
Who was led to the prince
The very same day

She thought it strange
In the palace
Holding hands

A prince
Wanting matches

What for
All the  windproof torches
He might choose

The pauper was too busy
Blowing away the world
With an unharnessed fury
Twice the size of the sun

To indulge
Her whys
Her what fors

He just wants to see you
He likes little whores
Now die! Die! die! Die!
You scum! por favor

Although she enjoyed
Her walk through the palace
She never once minded
The prince's entreaties

She hid behind the couch
In the paupers motel room
While he indulged all his fantasy
Of anarchy and mayhem

The endless rapping upon the door
Went unanswered
And the prince's heart
Knew first heartbreak

Our little match girl she
Got big
In her own palatial

Not just on that day but

Wednesday 4 December 2013

the crux of cyber-monday - i

Technology was really killing me. Mercury had to be retrograde. Dogs were barking. Bread was buttered with marmalade. And it was cyber fucking monday. Only thing saving me today was Bowie. Little China girl. Meet little Miss Americana. She's got thrift DKNYs and a liquid cooled television burning out her emerald eyes.

This is not real. This is a disguise. Come out come out, wherever you are. Soul? Please do not be shy! Remember just yesterday? When you ruled the sky blue all the way from you know where, with you know who?

All the followers were becoming leaders, these days. And vice versa. With a cursory glance off your paintbrush hair follicles, you could see. Maybe you liked it. Maybe not. Maybe no one and yourself cared how you felt. And Judge Judy. All the flowers were gonna be fed something they did not need, and blossom into some kinda brilliance Van Gogh would stretch his eyelashes against.

Everybody forgot how to dance. And they knew it. Eyes danced across screens only. Watching the different black and white styles from the 1920s on. Wow, what a party. Wish I was there. Some had the courage to go to dance classes. Some took off their shoes forever. Some danced barefoot across Murphy oiled knotty pine floors with a plastic coating making it all possible. The kittens jumped one another like frogs, and struck to kill. Nails retracted however. Or were glossed over, the ones in the wood floor. So your pretty little bare feet would not get mutilated.

Anyone had a chance to live. Just not everybody took it, right away.

Saturday 30 November 2013

5 k 10 blessed

I got 50,000 words on paper
I felt nothing for a while
Then i felt OK
Soon OK felt really good
And really good
Got even better

Then I did not know
What the heck to do with myself?
Then I climbed a mountain
With some friends

Walking the ridge line
With a full circle view
Then summiting under the sun
Brought it all home

I wrote 50,000 words
What a blessing.

(You can read my poem
about my national novel,
50,000 words under the sea

Tuesday 19 November 2013

Support looks like

Hi. If you have enjoyed my writings over the days, months, years and would like to support me, here is how you can.

I am grateful for you who support me just by reading my work. This is all I could ask of anyone and I am deeply touched by this alone.

If you choose to react, comment, critique, and share your impressions, this I'd always welcome and encouraged.

If you can or wish to do more for me, it would be this... please go to the top of this blog and locate the link to my publications on Amazon. Or go to Amazon and type my name in the search field.

Then consider reading my ebooks (or paperback) and writing me a review. They don't cost much and sometimes are on sale.

I now have 6 reviews total since I self -published, and every one has been 4-5 stars out of 5.

Now I have never published before sep'13. And I have always given my hard work away, sharing freely,  asking nothing in return, like we do.

Most important to me now is not the money, but rather to build a reputation. Sharing my posts on social media with your people is most helpful.

And reading and reviewing my publications puts you in with my angels. Thank you so much for your support!

Monday 18 November 2013

Boy and girl, Unified

I broke the 25,000 word barrier.
You can read about my process,
on In Filament, #5 .

I am thinking about how the
community of poets, writers,
artists, readers, and wonderful
representatives of the human
race, well, you all pull me up
'in filaments'. So thank you.
I get thrown into the fire of my
creative, internal. Tossed up
against that fence.
Then I bounce back with a
madness so sweet.
The catharsis kicks in, and
lays down at my feet.

Here now, is an excerpt from
my nano nano. I hope you
read it, feel it, like it, hate it.
Cause that's what it did to me
and that's okay. The feelings
keep me going, when they're
not shutting me down.
Katya Webber Mills

Excerpt (in the 24,000+ range)
aka the flauna and flora floating
on the surface of my new moon

National Novel November

"Could only put up with a boy for so long, especially since he was gettin’ some. Boys wanna start acting like they own a girl, usually because there scared of losing her. Then you try calming them down about it and relax, and they start thinkin’ you’re hiding something. All the insecurities arise, and then what was a pure oxytocin play becomes a big downer of hurt feelings, jealousies, physical abuse and emotional blackmail. Any girl knew the warning signs. Only some could pull out of a tailspin relationship in time. Attachment was a bitch.
But anyway, I began to feel something for the boy was keeping me happy-like. So before and after our unified moments, I would listen with some trepidation; only to see how he was recklessly  gunning toward an opportunity to get shot or locked up. Cause black had him not only breaking the law, but then some. "

Sunday 17 November 2013

A goodreads review!

My book, reviewed:

Check out @BYToropov's Tweet:

Also. I Just surpassed 22,000 words on the #nanowrimo today. Stood Alive!

Friday 15 November 2013


Check out @Katya444ever's Tweet:

Wednesday 13 November 2013

I have realized the sum of 17,324 words since November 1st. 
National Novel Month

Much of it is draft, so I am being careful not to post
anything whimsical in nature, or otherwise unworthy of offering
up to the pantheon...


"The sun was drawing its blood into the sky. Which immediately turned orange, I cannot tell you why. Then the colors filtered from yellow and pink, and left the light rinsed out clean. Where the sky was the sink."

You may find writing 'process' notes
on my other blog @ K IS SILENT

You may also find my dark fantasy 
short ebook for free until midnight @ EVERLEE & LEE

K and cats by K 11-12-13

Sunday 10 November 2013

Faith alone

Sola fide
Is all I have
to make it through
The night

Bona fide
I gave the lead
Then vanished
Out of sight

Mala fide
Unwelcome here
Extinguished all
The light

Faith alone
Hands clasped
In prayer

who knows what
who knows where

Sola fide
Is all I got
The steady beat
My broken heart

Saturday 9 November 2013

The Liebster Award - Q/A

"The Liebster Blog Award is a way for bloggers to highlight Blog's and Bloggers that have small followings but deserve acknowledgement for their hard work, excellence and contribution to the world of Blogging."

Thank You

Thank you Rea De Miranda for this award. A really nice way for bloggers to get to know one another and show appreciation for one another's work by sharing it with a greater potential audience. I am truly honored. Here is a link to Rea De Miranda's blog, please take a look before you go any further, if you will...

Here are the nomination rules:
1. List eleven random facts about yourself.
2. Nominate eleven bloggers for the Liebster Blog Award.
3. Notify the bloggers.
4. Ask eleven questions the bloggers must answer upon receiving the award.
5. Answer the eleven questions you were asked when you were nominated.
6. Link back to the person who nominated you.

Random Facts

One and Two
I am a second child, and a 'Daughter of the American Revolution' (by blood, not society). I am an Aquarius, and was born the same day the last American helicopter took off from the US Embassy in Vietnam in 1973.

Three & Four 
My favorite colors are royal blue and kelly green. My #s on the enneagram (a personality indicator) are #4 and #9. This means I am naturally a creative type, although easily overwhelmed by choices. 

Five and Six
I am bisexual. I have been in numerous relationships with either men or women over the course of my life, but the only person I seem to be able to live with (or is able to live with me) is myself. I was never okay with being alone, but I am decidedly okay with it now!

Seven & 8
I have lived in many places: Wellesley, MA (where Sylvia Plath went to high school). Cambridge, MA (home of MIT and Harvard)Tuftonboro, NH (where Soong May-ling aka Madame Chiang Kai-Shek once resided), Chicago, IL, St. Petersburg, FL (where Jack Kerouac lived and died), Martinez, CA (where John Muir once resided), Oakland, CA (where the Black Panthers were established), and San Francisco. 

Nine and Ten
I do Tarot card Readings for anyone that asks. I have a tattoo of a kanji (Japanese character based on the Chinese language) on my arm, meaning 'dream' -- and I do believe that with great and persevering effort, dreams do come true. 

Eleven is one of my favorite and lucky numbers. 

Rea's Q &A

1.    If reincarnation is true who do you think you were in a previous life?
I think I was someone who lived in St. Petersburg in Russia. Because though I have never lived there, I feel a strong affinity for this city. At times obsessed with its history, the last tsar, and Rasputin.

2.   What do you fear most about life?
Sometimes I fear (in a paranoid fashion) that it will end suddenly. Which to me is certain proof that I love and appreciate my life, no matter how horrible my suffering at times.

3.   If you could change your name what would it be and why?
I would not change my name, even if I could! (staying to the letter of the question, mind you!)

4.   One secret about you nobody knows.
Somebody would know this secret, if I told. So the question is impossible to answer! 

5.   If you could go back in time to change the course of life where would you go?
I would go back to Chicago, where I hurt someone I truly loved and whom truly loved me. I would not want to lose her, but more importantly I would no want to hurt her the way I did and have always regretted. 

6.   Have you ever wanted to be the opposite sex for one day and what would you do if you could?
Yes. Rule the world for a day. Because men still rule the world. 

7.  Do you prefer water (ocean and lakes) or mountains?
I prefer water. I love to waterski and ice skate. And sailing is nice, also. I am also a 'water-bearer', which believe it or not is an 'air sign'. Hahaha! This is true. Aquarius .

8.  Have you ever stolen something and what was it?
I have stolen hearts. But is it really stealing, if they gave them to me?

9.  Would you tell a lie to pacify someone?
Absolutely not! Now we all do things impulsively, and many of us learn to lie so to pacify our parents. So this is not always a choice, telling a lie to pacify. But in situations where I see a choice and choose, I always choose to tell the truth. Because come on! Lies are not pacific by nature! 
10.  What makes you angry?
People who lie to my face, to get what they want. People who say nothing, to get what they want. Corporate Greed. Non-profit greed. Holier-than-thous. Sociopaths. Egomaniacs. Succubi. People who perpetrate violence of any kind on any sentient being. Unconscious drones. Bores. 

11.  One word you think describes you.


Viva Nova @
Stephanie @
Dean @
Brenda @
Sonia @
Karen @
Arthur @

Questions 4 you:

What's your least favorite thing about blogging?
What gets you out of bed in the morning?
Any thoughts about feelings?
Why did you decide to blog?
Any feelings about thoughts?
What is your favorite ritual?
Your least favorite ritual?
What sign are you, does it mean anything?
Has blogging enriched your life? How?
If you had to go to Mars, who would you go with?
What can you do to treat yourself, 4 doing this?

Thursday 7 November 2013

EVERLEE AND LEE (my ebook and dark fantasy) just got a wonderful review
by the Literary Syndicate, check it out!

Tuesday 5 November 2013

Excerpt # 3

National Novel Writing Month
6834 words. Day #4

"No more! I pulled it all back and fell back into the plush of the foam behind the vinyl covering the booth. I couldn’t take no more. I could only look at him from behind my tears and how it all had hit me, and who he was and what he had been through, so terrible, so bad. And how finally for once in my life there was someone who I never would have any question, got my back. So certain on point here - this crazy man in this crazy world, was the eye of the hurricane where I might finally relax and just be. Be my crazy self in the insanity of it all. And so it was."

K by K 2012. Richmond CA

skating - a poem

Monday 4 November 2013

Excerpt #2. National Novel Month.

The work is going well. My word counts are a bit off, but the quality is more important than the quantity. I am writing a parallel piece every day about my 'process' of writing a novel this month, and those thoughts can be found @ K IS SILENT. My entries here all month, will be strictly excerpts of the actual novel I am attempting to write. I realize that excerpt #1 had all sorts of profanity in it, and so today's excerpt will be profanity-free. Enjoy!

K 'nanowrimo' 2013

"HE took me to a broken old tool shack in the heart of East Oakland, California. If you call it a heart. The beating center of clandestine criminal activity, pumping its black blood of underground decentralized mercenary trade out across the land. Stifling good-naturedness and choking civility and perpetrating chaos in any way possible, by any means necessary. A real triumph of the black market. A real home for the underground. A real perversion of faith. A real viral sickness of sociopathy and anti-establishment terror, murder and hidden power, blackmail and deception, betrayal and violence. "

Saturday 2 November 2013

Excerpt (national novel) #1

Here's maybe my favorite paragraph I wrote, day #1...

"I really would have laughed, I would have. Problem was, I had no fucking clue where I was. No fucking clue whose piece of shit dirty-ass van I was sitting in. No fucking clue why my head hurt, how I got here under the neon light pissing down and the smell of piss all around. No fucking clue about anything, except that my life was clearly derailed and the fear was rooted in the base of my spine and branching out like a tree in flash fast forward photosynthesized heroics. I began to lose my breath and could not catch it. The air felt frozen against my face, and my eyesight suddenly became so sharp I could read the street sign a hundred yards up the hill leading on to the highway. It said Santa Clara Avenue. I said it in my head."

K by K, day 2 nanowrimo!

Friday 1 November 2013

4 Montoya (response)

May the moon wax away, any tears in your eyes. While the sun melts the wax of the moon, as time flies.

Thursday 31 October 2013

untitled. mentions clowns.

we cannot
be cured

of love

our patience


we break out
in laughter

in a room

we empty
our lungs

of hateful

we sigh

free from

we die
with dignity

we kill
for sanity

a smile
we assuage
from sad kids
with braces

as clowns


Wednesday 30 October 2013

what the wind remembered

nobody remembered her name or her face
or the pale of her wrists
by the edge of her lace

 no one remembered the man or his name
who sunk his axe deep
in the wood
in the yard
in his sleep

only the wind still whispered her name
through the gaps and the floors
through those walls
made of wood

and wrung out the leaves of the trees 
just like hands
to remember the others

the other ones who had died

two and twenty years before
and twice as long
before then

and twice as long
before then

and twice as long
before then

by Katya Mills
'house at 22nd and F' by katya

Tuesday 29 October 2013

Nonfiction #77. subset 444

All seems

steaming cup of coffee.

gloves off.

press muse into paper.

sidewalk series by Katya
sidewalk @ 19th and F

gets better
we try

Monday 28 October 2013

The druid at vespers

The druid
the tree of life
the sun
has set...

to divine
things to come

in the sky

the spider

I had the bolt
I thought
I was sure

'Neon Orange Spider on Gate' by Katya
The spider
he came
The venom
So pure

Sunday 27 October 2013

Girl Without Borders #41

The digital copy of my debut novel is free today on, and currently trending #41 in the Urban Genre ebook best sellers list. Judging by my peers books in that category, my book has been slightly miscategorized! Other popular titles in Urban Fiction (by wonderful authors, bless their hearts) include:

 'The Lipstick Clique 2'
 'Trust No Nigga' (love that one!)
 'Jump Off Bitches'
 'His Thoughts, Her Thighs'
 'Duffle Bag Bitches'
'Black Butterfly 2: Eboni Machiavelli'

Talk about Titles Without Borders. I will guarantee you my book is as shocking or more, as any of them.
You can support my spiritual fitness plan by reviewing or rating my book, if you decide to take the time to read it!

Meanwhile, I will work on on spicing up my next title.
A couple ideas I have in mind:
 'Player Hater Conundrum, Volume #86'
'Snitches 4 Bitches'
'OG - OMG!

Saturday 26 October 2013

hallowed. electric

You don't wanna know how i feel in this madness. I don't wanna feel in this madness. I don't know. You don't wanna know. Something comes across my affect, and my bones have to pick me up and exorcise it anyway I can. Otherwise I'm a goner.

See them walking across the bridge at midnight, hand in hand? Watch them approach. Shades, they are shades. The black cats pour out of the giant dry pipe in the bedrock. The river has long dried up. The fish have long since gasped for water. The air is zero humidity.

The black cats they shock one another in the crackle of a dry invisible tension of world of breathlessness. With each shock, jumps one over the other. The black cats. Each shock jumps one over the other. Feline electric.You don't wanna know.

They are shades. They walk right through your frozen fear. You don't wanna know how it feels. It is frozen, and they walk right through it. Like it's nothing at all. They walk all over. The clear sound of heeled hooves, becomes the pitter patter of mice then ants. Smaller and smaller. Like oak wood falling out of its rings. A puddle of paper pulp, bubbling into the ground. The pores in the ground make a sucking sound. You don't wanna know.

body electric by katya, 2013

Shocked. Jumping one over the other. Body electric.

Terror strikes the hearts in half. The blood pools on the ground. The earth sucks it up. What is seeded, is beyond pale. A frightening smiling face, hanging off the neon stalks of a dark night evolution. The friends, all dried up and give birth to this. They call them so-called.

It will shock you.You don't wanna know. In the shadow of the shades, I become a black cat. Jumping over another. Darting back into the pipe. Feline electric. Back to the source. In the cold, dark, Halloween night.

Wednesday 23 October 2013

NNN - National Novel November!

'books on glass' by k
I will be writing a novel in the month of November, as part of the National Novel Writing Month. Wow, I am so excited! I will attempt to fictionalize the last decade of my life in Oakland, California. In the first 10 months of 2013, I have posted around 200 times between this blog and my website. I self-published my first novel and published a short story. I have met so many friends online and off, and rekindled old friendships. 

 I left Oakland and have found a home in Sacramento. I am healing. I have worked really, really hard to build community and write. Now is a chance to push my skills to another level, and put my past exactly where it belongs -- in the past. Exorcise the demons. And have a hell of a time, doing it. This should be great fun!  I will be updating you all on my progress, by posting excerpts on the daily, throughout November. WIsh me luck! 

Monday 21 October 2013

Sunday 20 October 2013

Candle (excerpt #2)

" I came to in a world I never knew. I came to, only to pass out once again by the weight of new things. My blood trickled down from my nose, pressured by the weight of my senses all colliding to interpret. My marrow beamed electric inside my bones. Like the weak light from the circuitry of some twentieth-century pinball machine relegated to some dark corner somewhere, to cover up a crime. "

Note from the author...

This was an excerpt from a short story I have been writing, based on a popular post I wrote recently,  titled the candle
Thank you, my dear readers. I realize now (and can appreciate) that in a sense you have been my beta readers all along, as far back as 2007 when i started this blog. I can run my ideas past you, and look at my stats from time to time, to gauge your interest in the material. 

Going forward with faith as a self-published author, I know that I am not alone in my process. I thank you. 

Friday 18 October 2013

Taking Leave


Gathered up
Stomped on

Born of sun
And air

Blown off
Blown off your property
Blown away

Born of air
And water
And sun

Torn apart
Driven over

To art

Born of
Water pulled
Up from

Stared upon
In Wonder

To see

self-portrait, K





by Katya

Tuesday 15 October 2013

The day the dining room table lost all popularity

America 2009. A year i filed down and compressed for easy retrieval. No time machine needed. Just a can opener. Contents preserved in a secret preservative recipe.

A partial list of contents:
 red vines
chocolate lucky charms (magically suspicious)
wildhorse cig filters
ambien and vinegar base

Embedded on a portable storage device, on a bed of lettuce. From a head of lettuce, intangible. Probability equations of course were lost in translation. The unzipping of the full body suit. Probability became as dead to mathematics as Latin was to language. The odds of this statement being true, were known to be high. Gamblers gambled...and still lost. They tucked their leftover singles, reluctantly, on the B-side of her G-string, to the sad key of E minor.

2009 thus unpacked - what did it represent anymore? ... Seemed encouraging. Music penetrated my everything. Seasons tended to be blended. Winters on ice. Summers were generally not so hot and not so nice. Like writers experiencing blocks. People of substance endured them anyway. Substances were often involved, on the dating scene. Substances on a night out with any person of questionable substance, directly caused symmetric convolution. Translation? the convolution kernel would be symmetric across its zero point.

Doors sometimes revolved. Some who found themselves in revolving doors, also happened to be of the subset of the census who found themselves utterly discouraged to the point of crashing by the very mention of anything impacting the convolution kernel's zero point. Thankfully, neither you nor me.

Ecosystems often were impacted, too, in 2009. Both internal and external ecosystems. Either dissolved or evolved. Costly checking accounts were erroneously freed by a stubborn corporate culture way too far into the black. Back to black was an unknown concept back then. 2009. Credit cards given freely to anyone who was not fiscally unsound aka poor aka in need of a fucking credit card. Checking in often preceded and followed, checking out. Soon due to a conservative movement to decentralize government and put Sarah Palin in power, there would be no checking in at all. Only checking out. And everyone and my bad self checked the fuck out. Swearing aloud became commonplace, especially in liberal google plus circle infancy.

TVs everywhere hosted purportedly independent families everywhere. The dining room table (as a form for function) lost all popularity. Despite immaculate credibility. At least someone was doing the dishes. TVs hosted families. A subset grew into a superset. Television set (itself) to the task of Interplanetary Expressing its bad self to the surrounding planets in a vacuum-sealed space capsule. Today interplanetary aliens are still staring down the fork of a strange plug attached to a ridiculous,useless device. Earth looks bad. Mars (earth's sponsor) turns a deeper shade of red.

This unzipped post is to be continued at a time yet to be determined by the no-name almost famous author and blogger extraordinaire, who has reached a zero point of her own particular patience kernel. And thankfully so, remarked the always difficult to impress and ever so fashionable, Zoe. 

Memory #2009. Zero points. Tidal wave music. Current of gratitude -- ii)

Continuation of an earlier suggestion by K, years ago. Completion of a semi-conscious thought...

Religion was unpopular in areas where its leaders did not sway political power. In those areas, religion still dominated and tormented millions and was smoked, ingested, digested, inhaled, and slammed by minions. Obsessing minds like Helen of Troy.

In supposedly 'free' countries, those who believed they were free wore spirituality on their luxurious auras and referred to east meets west and quoted prominent thinkers and spiritual teachers so to keep good standing among social circles.

'Keeping it real'

They often ended where they began, these social circles. true to being a circle.  Comfort came in being in the same place and unevolved; they called this state of stagnation: HOME.

No words meant anything, really, because all words could be traced back to the dead language, which was alive in all words. They called it dead because they were free and unconscious. Only when the people slept did consciousness appear, and they called these 'nightmares' and spoke of consciousness as though it were a horrible curse upon them.

And yet they spoke of consciousness with great philosophical energy made viral, and some claimed to be more conscious than others.

[These were know as sleepwalkers and allowed to exist in a harm reductive state, and went back far in time in hopes of rejecting the notion that anyone (anything) like them could possibly have ever existed before them, for they considered themselves unique.]

Fortunately, their condition was terminal at best. Rebirth would be promised them for centuries before termination due to the giving up on them by the divine (he who giveth up on no one).

Saturday 12 October 2013

chicago with love

Chicago how i love you.... how i would go back in a second, if going back in a second was possible....  only in my mind... so what you beat me up and made me run away... so what your skies were often grey... i learned from you how to suffer ... and now they say i am grace, how i carry myself somtimes.... chicago you taught me to suffer so... gracefully... touched by you, i am... so i am... if bipolar was a weather pattern.... chicago... so balanced and fucking off the hook photogenic.... not a bad side to your skyline ... but your underbelly.... Lake Street... under the elevated line lies darkness... some may never see through, others will always overlook... chicago, wow, you are a maze in my dreams ... my memory howls for you... like Neko Case down by the Morton Salt mural.... at the alt-country bar, there... Elston Avenue's industrial madness... concrete suite... asphalt phalls....falls on the midwest farms to pheed the people.... elements locked in industrial jungle...

 iron trax above and circling round like an architectural subway tour...above the underbelly of jazz era dope fiends making music on the side...friendly...when you need a hit, its phriendly...apocryphal shining of shoes, down by Ceres... where's my reflection the suit demands...tosses the tip in the air and saunters off...ceriously? Seriously...grain is ruled by gods...fronted by statues of goddesses...chicago with your big shoulder mentality... why do i love is never why, only how, Chicago... how i love you... because you stole my heart... because you flagged my spirit... because you suffered my fool... almost drown me in your pool... great lake serpent snake...cold gold flake... flat iron brick city... Michigan can only distance itself so far... Detroit licking guitars... echos of screams let out of their jars... bars, bars, BARS.... all your fucking urban manifestations....every representation of every known nation...  the urban.... Nelson Algren ... Polish Triangle... chicago, a working class city at heart....taught me how to work for shit...taught me how to work for it... west side was the best side...punks... reduced rent lofts... small bar on every corner... bars on every window...the alcohol abuse center, r.i.p... miss your billiards and your two bucks for a double whisky....flat iron... artist haven... i got my only blue tattoo, chicago... my blue tattoo to remember you, chicago... to remember you.

Friday 11 October 2013

On 'flash' or 'sudden' form -i)

 I wrote the freeverse piece below,
 in a 4-4-4-6-6 form.
The form felt really nice for my style,
and I may begin to use the form regularly...

I am more and more confident in my ability
to write flash or sudden pieces. I still prefer writing
prose to poetry, though often I find myself whiddling a
flash piece I wrote, down into a freeverse poem.
The process is often very natural and leads me there.
Still I prefer the flash or sudden  form.

Flash and sudden are two names for basically
the same form. Usually prose, usually under 500 words.
The Chinese have been know to call it smoke-long. 
Meaning you can read the piece in the time
it takes to smoke a cig.


You may know us
By air currents

In a faraway
Place without

We may speak
Without words
the glass
From within

May come



where streams
bend backward

Glancing off
And human made
Check dams

To clasp
into rivers

By Katya Mills

Tuesday 8 October 2013

this time, last year

Companion to last year, this time

This time, last year, well.... i was pretty tore up. Looking forward to nothing. Twelve twelve twelve, and the end of the fucking world. I was living in a truck in Richmond, California. Not a nice place to live, really. Definitely not a nice place to live in a truck. It wasn't my idea. It wasn't my truck. Just shy of forty, and just shy of some incomprehensible impending doom I could feel, lurking around the corner. Literally.

This time last year, I was rescued. From an abusive relationship with a kid I met at a vending machine. He had sold the machine out of the cookies I was hoping to buy, with what was left of my bank account. Little did I know he would sell out on me, a few months later. Back to black. He went from telling me he would take a bullet for me,  the day we got mugged in De Fremery Park, to holding a fragment off a mirror he shattered, in my face. For real. All we ever had in common were those fucking cookies he sold out on me.

All I was left with was my impoverished beat down self, in the end. Staring at that metal coil behind glass, wondering how my spirit got consumed. I had all the time in the world to figure it out, this time, last year. Unemployed and unemployable. Mental Illness is a bitch. Causes you to get another degree in pharmacology, just to get baseline. When emotional flatline is your goal? you got problems, kid. Another degree in chemicals, had a reverse lake effect on my mental illness: took me a degree deeper into my chaos. Paranoid about people. And twelve twelve twelve. Unemployed and unemployable. Board and care, no longer cared.

I became bored. And careless with my self. That's what you get, when you take the road never traveled by. Who gets involved with an ex-dope fiend turned dope fiend, by choice? Mental Illness is a mother. Another landlord had had enough. I was about to kick me out of me! For real. Mental case. Up all night. Up all day. Writing? Yes, of course. But that was the last of my sanity, I guarantee. Never lose gratitude for cold cold reason. Always appreciate your frontal lobe. Do not sell it on the black market, like I did. This time, last year.

Sunday 6 October 2013

Colors, too

Companion piece to 'Colors'...

'Colors, too'

moved to Dallas
to live by
Boring Alice

was Green
with sea

Royal Blue
too big
to see

had to
scoot over
decreed by

eyes were
glazing over
a suspect shade
of Teal

A mass
of cloud
Royal Blue

while we
ever closer
to be
by you

and Kangaroo)
by you

-by Katya, 2013

Friday 4 October 2013



felt like
in bones
getting up

low low
the world
my life


were like
a turn
by a

were like
fuckin' lost
in a spin

laughter anywhere
but here

put my
in at stove
to get

no home
no life
no future

euphoric recall
makes it worse

those withdrawals
got so bad

i ain't

-Katya, 2013

Wednesday 2 October 2013

Sudden two

Every morning
Around five
Sleep ends

On my knees
Child pose
Give up
my will

Forehead touches


A side of

Tuesday 1 October 2013

flash, inspired by a poem

inspired by poem by Xue Di: the poem warms from within to without. my blood pushes and floods, the capillary fields. the crop has been harvested and placed in burlap. the children beat their wings against the sacks. for fun. the roots of the trees pull the water up slowly. this water will someday be someone's tears of sorrow. or joy.

girl on girl (not a) crime

Nonfiction by K & B (friend of K).
a 'sext' (text sex) session
Present time. Rated R.


B: Hey u
K: Hey

B:Want to fuck?

11:35AM (after a long silence because i was in shock)
K: Huh?
(there was no known intimate past between us)

K: lOl - i thought you were straight

B: Oops!
To my friend!

K: Darn, I was afraid you would say that!
(i figured she was bluffing)

12:16 PM
B: Well we could sext!
K: Anytime, you body rocker, rocking bod

B: Fingers?
K: Fingers??

K: You better not be drinking two fingers
tequila... Nor anything else for that matter
(she doesn't drink anymore)
B: wannt 2 rock your clit

B: Pics?
K: Yes

K: Shit, omg. I don't think I can trust this.
What if you're some kid or some dude
who stole her phone?
(stranger things have happened)
B: Pics

K: Only a dude would ask 4 pics. Who is this?
And what did you do with my friend?
B: Pics

B: Please

K: Nice try... DUDE

B: Fucking myself u want pics?
K: Oh boy, you R fuckin with my DOME

B: Want pics?
K: Just a pic of your face not yer ass, OK?

B sends a pic of her nipple just 
barely peeping over her tank top

K: Wow. Is that u? (still suspicious).
You sure got tan

B sends a face pic. She's a white girl,
29 yrs old, English / American, almond blue eyes
Blonde hair flowing down either side of her face,
same length as mine but more wavy. She appears
to be sitting in her car. The seatbelt gave it away.

K: Ok that's u all right.
B: I just feel like, aka fucking u.

K sends a self-pic of my thighs, bare, from above.

B: Can I try?
K: Ya well where are u anyway?
Are u coming? double entendre

B: How do i fuck myself?
K sends a face pic 

K: Gently with a tattle tale finger wag
across the cut.
K: Like a youngblood slut.
Then deep in the cut...

B: Need a pic
K: continuing Until you hit the spot
Open your lips when you feel yourself
Gettin kinda hot

B sends a pic in the cut
B: want?

K: Beauty
So did you do as I said?

B: Pics?

K sends a pic in the cut

K: I gotta go up north
B: Going?

K: Love u
B: Thank u


Monday 30 September 2013

My debut novel is free on Amazon until midnight Tuesday.
Please read, rate, and review. Thanks!

sudden one, too

Companion to sudden one...

noon came and went
God gossiped about
on fm radio

Why are they
name dropping Jesus?

god i am tired
my neck and eyes hurt

all forty years of me
fall apart

Tomorrow when the
sky turns

i will roar like a tiger
to the whistle of steam

i will suck on ceramic
and coffee and cream

fuck all the noise
i got bluejean

Katya Mills, 2013

Saturday 28 September 2013

flash one (and a train)

Flash! My life there before my eyes! My history blown up so suddenly, my eyelashes fell right off and down into the earth, seeding an tree that grew so far and fast up and around the chain-link fences, under the sacred earth and up and into the light of impossible spaces, through cracked pavement. Up and up, and now looking down upon the city with double the eyes of a thousand conscious souls. Then every other eye gave forth a ray of light, down upon the closed doors and minds of a counter-counterculture mashup of a million devastated hearts. The lights were benevolent, though burning. They set fire to the doors and out poured the run-for-your-life darkness, of heretofore contained-in-container ship, immigration-made whores. Leaving a trail of stillettos in the mud of urban decay. Taking flight into the benevolent white tractor-beam light, from the eyes of the tree, rooted in the lash that fell from a compassionate tear of washed up, suck of history of mine and maybe yours, too. Taking refuge finally, in our alien shared landless loving of the downtrodden and will be downtrodden no more, and never again.

Wednesday 25 September 2013

shadow of a ghost town

A stranger was not necessarily what the townsfolk wanted or needed, in the shadow of a ghost town. But he was welcome just the same... this man who considered himself a cowboy, for he had roped a little spirit back in the day. Held it close to him for a hot second, got to know it real good, then quickly gave it away. And kept giving it away, because giving felt right. And so he lived large in generosity, in a small part of the world. Until one day he felt a calling, and listened to it carefully. The calling was legit, he decided. So he answered. Rode out away from home, and came into a long abandoned little part of the world, way off the beaten path. Outside a rural area. Off the grid, for sure. In the shadow of a ghost town.

A gentle influence of the very nearly unplanned, played into a general vague spontaneity of the townsfolk there. If you called it a town. There would be times of half-hearted devotion toward some undefined occupation there. There was little to no preoccupation with anything. The children raised themselves. The women worked the same as men, and neither very hard or long. Mother nature was the closest thing to God. And the men all had a proclivity towards horseshoes. A pasttime which neither legend nor fact attributes them, though they doubtless invented it. After the last horse took fright and upended its last rider, and galloped free and out from under this shadow of a ghost town. No other town known to man, ever had reason to make a game out of shoes of horses, what with the abundance of horses wherever their was an abundance of man. Each of which required not one but four shoes running.

Well, one of these recently made useless arches of iron, had just lodged an impression into the soft dirt of a pit, throwing up a piece of dust into the air, when this cowboy of the spirit came riding up on them out of nowhere, there. He said nothing other than that he had a calling, and answered it, to account for his coming. They welcomed the stranger, though they would have seen him going just as fast as he came. But no one became preoccupied with that sort of monkey business. Seeing a man going, that is.

And in return, over time, the townsfolk got all the seeing and knowing, caring and showing, guiding and allowing, they could possibly want out of a spirited (or unspirited, for that matter) man. In fact, they weren't sure they wanted all that, at all. But the stranger was welcome, just the same.

All that happened was witnessed by none other than the unmapped trickle of a river that kept this unknown place alive, in an otherwise lifeless area. Which the wild children tapped with buckets every day, carrying them back to their mothers and fathers, so as to be helpful in some way that went mostly unrecognized. Which was fine by them, anyway. They would not have known what to do with good old recognition most of the world around them had become dependent upon. Like the river, they went humbly on their way.

Then this stranger among them all in the shadow of a ghost town, started to act kinda strange. He started talking to himself (which was not uncommon, in fact they knew him to do it every day) about something he called trust. He would be looking at them talking, but talking to himself. They might look at him, too, but with a blank look. For what other kinda look was he looking for? And wherefore?

These were questions they did not ask themselves.  But they were not oblivious to the man's peculiar way of affect. Sometimes he began crying spontaneously and hysterically so. Sometimes he shook out the ancestral hardly-containable anger that rose up in his bones. Times he was hopping about, jumping and hollering, full of sand and lust. The children, they caught him in their arms when he was drained. They really just happened to be there. They gave him a great and vacant stare, when he showered them with praise. They had other matters at hand. Survival, for instance. Survival somehow trumped any kind of unasked for validation. Somehow. That's not to say validation wasn't welcome.

Over time (many years in fact, but no one was counting), the stranger became a familiar sort of stranger to the inhabitants of this unincorporated, practically uninhabitable land, in the shadow of a ghost town. He finally quieted down, both verbally and in affect, and that little spirit he once had roped and given away, came back to fill him up. He never knew it to be gone, honestly. Not until he really listened with the children, who had accepted him silently into their tribe, to the whispers of the refrain echoing off the hills and highs and lows, to thrills and cathartic expression, always back home on the backs of the four winds.

the end

Saturday 21 September 2013

the story of the friend with the generous aperture eyes

There was an established community. Peace reigned throughout the system in place (or so it appeared). Those in places of power, had been voted on and secured by a fair and democratic process -- with the usual parade of accepted or derided acts of nepotism. Nepotism, after all, must be thoughtfully handled as though it were a fine art. Thoughtless public displays of power-grabbing would be exposed in a discrediting way. Still, in this community, those who had most blood relatives, tended to see the longer end of every stick. As was the way of the greater world, surrounding.

Peace prevailed for a long enough time, to cause anything other than peace to be drawn into immediate attention. The peaceful nature of the inhabitants, smoothed over any rough edges almost immediately. Like the sea turning broken bottles into sea glass. Not just anyone, wanted to see a real and heavy kinda violence erupt upon the stage. Everyone kept such a feeling to themselves, for fear of alienation.

In this peaceful community with its subtext of potential violence, a seed germinated. Among them was one who had no ties with anyone whatsoever. One who came from out of any context of time, place, or family tree. There were rumors, of course, about how it came to pass that a stranger had stepped into the family portrait from off the edge of the map, but due to the pacific nature at hand, no one took the bull by the horns, as they say.

This one, this stranger, had wide eyes and was identifiable sight seen, due to their inner light pouring out in generous fashion, in yellows and earth tones, to light up anyone's world who stood within twenty feet. The rumors gave way and were extinguished by the light. This one became immediately well-liked, despite their forays into psychoses still unestablished.

Most would be shocked when they found out about the true hidden nature of their so-called friend; the one with the generous aperture eyes.

Nobody would ever place the generosity in question. You see, they basked in the inner light pouring out upon them. Like a waterfall of light pooling into the public square. With a twenty foot circumference the kids inside only stepped out of, on a dare. Your average inhabitant felt warm enough to shed back some body armour, and lay down before this. Some would go further, and perhaps even show an unrefined vulnerability to the one with the generous aperture eyes.

Bad idea. Everybody knows you don't get the Led out! and go Houses of the Holy cover art on some dude you barely met! That's like some chick texting her tits to some recently paroled, domestic abuse artist. Which for all anybody knew, this one was or could have been! But the light, the light, everyone talked about the sweet generous light! No one doubted the fact that the one cast no shadow at all. And spoke not a word to a soul. And lived on yogurt pretzels and hot-dog flavored potato chips...and slurpees.

But it happened, nevertheless. That subtext thing that everyone secretly wanted. And thank God no one got hurt. Maybe feelings. But feelings can feel their way out of a hurt. Usually.

So this propped up, phony, cult-of-personality fell down off the life-drawn dream rendition, when the community's resident genetic profiler (and a highly intelligent man) got wind of the newcomer with the generous aperture eyes. The analytics were not compelling. Not towards the ever-coveted passport stamp of membership, after all.

Why did it take so long? Well, prepare to laugh or cry. The second child of the third sister of the wife of the man who was the son of the son of the founder, or the purported co-founder of our beloved community, you know, the one who utimately branched off to an unknown location deep in the valley, where the few who went with him were tricked into his harem? Ya, that one! Well, his grandson's wife's third sister's second child totally dropped the ball as the Chief Minister of Immigration aka Border Patrol. Having been absolutely gifted (as a favor to the first and second sister, whose sister (the third sister) was distraught over the brutish ennui demonstrated by her second child, after the untimely passing of her husband and first son in a tragic crowdsourcing accident that no one has ever been allowed to discuss since it happened) the position and title in the community, in the most intricate act of nepotism since the first brother (and known gambler) of the daughter of the very same founder was elected Treasurer of the community. Then stoned to death. After he usurped half the bank one year, and lost it in Reno. Long before peace settled over the community.

So the genetic profiler (a highly intelligent man) had words with the good-for-nothing Chief Minister of Immigration, and gave a compelling case for extradition.  He received such a larceny of honest discourse, in reply. Yes-man type responses, and nods of the head, inside of which no wheels were in motion whatsoever, at all!  The subsequent call for action against the one with the aperture eyes, was so long delayed, there were at least a half dozen citizens who had grown their first gray and silver hairs, in the same span of time.

But how could such a peaceable community, so violently impose extradition upon a person who had babysat half the community's children in a strange circle of light, all these years it took for at least half a dozen citizens to grow their first gray and silver hair? But what evidence could possibly have discredited the seemingly benevolent strange being who came out of nowhere?  With such generosity of light and spirit as had so endeared our friend with the aperture eyes, to the people? Flowing out in every direction to the distance of twenty feet?

Well, legend has it the resident genetic profiler (the same highly intelligent inhabitant of the community who demanded a call for extradition), had a scientific dossier of his findings; which moved quickly from hypothesis to theory, and withstood all lack of challenge in the community. The findings in said dossier (which have been sealed in an open air wicker basket atop a file cabinet in the living room of our beloved Chief Minister of Immigration) pointed to either a genetic or nurtured flaw in the disposition of the optical system presenting in the subject, the one with the generous aperture eyes. Therefore, it concluded, the generosity of the aperture disposition in the optical system was a direct result (and by no means chosen by the subject) of an involuntary perforated retina. Possibly inherited from unknown predecessors. But more than likely from the television ozone leaking through the ocular atmosphere, at some point in the subject's past life of apparent fraudulent and highly suspect life of suspected couch surfing, and transient living.

An addendum to the findings, which since has been lost by you know who, suggested also that the reason for the subject's apparent chosen life of silence and involuntary light-distribution to a radius of twenty feet around, was due to a nesting of evil behind the eyes, rather than the suspected life of asceticism.  And went on to propose that said subject likely had no soul, anymore, if it ever had one to begin with. Without a genogram in place, there could be no knowing. Interrogation of the subject was quickly ruled out. The children attracted into the light, were simply as comfortable as they would be seated in front of the television, at any time or location, as was also demonstrated by the resident genius in his own use of variables and constants to replicate the situation, for purpose of moving hypothesis into theory, in his laboratory, and then appropriately calling for action and extradition. Such is the scientific method, applied. At least get your kids out of there!! he whispered to his friends' wives, long before the experiments were even conducted.

And so, after many a grey hair had grown, the formerly peaceable community quite violently extradited the one with the generous aperture eyes, out back to wherever it came from. And so it hovered, its light spilling out on over, the edges of the community that once had embraced it.What happened next is quite tragic, indeed. After being eighty-sixed from the system and having all its permissions revoked...well, you can only imagine! Those big doe eyes turned red as sweet peppers from safeway, baby, and our former friend with the mistakenly attributed aperture eyes, flew into a psychotic rage which surrounding communities all talk about to this day, coming across the land like some bat-out-of-hell. The formerly peaceable community was entirely enveloped, in violent reaction. The end.