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.

Sunday 15 September 2013

the girl downstairs

The girl downstairs came up and knocked on my door. I asked who is it. ITS THE GIRL DOWNSTAIRS she said. I decided to open the door, for the girl downstairs. But i did not let her into my apartment. I didn't even know her name.

The girl downstairs is a blonde with a very well low-lit auburn section. She gets her hair done in LA, apparently. I can tell. Nobody up here in Sacramento can cut and color hair like hers. And if they can, I haven't seen it. Maybe i need to look a little harder. Maybe not. I would rather just feast my eyes on this LA situated hairdo, i told myself, and i did.

The girl downstairs was now dragging the girl upstairs, downstairs. Wow. And i didn't even know her fucking name! She was leading me like a horse, to water. And you cannot do that! Everybody knows! Lucky for her, I am not a horse. So she led me on downstairs and now we were like, two girls downstairs. If she had had a daughter, we could have called ourselves, two and a half girls. But she didn't have a daughter. Well, at least not downstairs she didn't.

The girl downstairs took me all the way back through an apparently identical apartment, to the bathroom. Which was WHERE THE PROBLEM IS. I guess she wanted to make her problem, my problem. But lucky for me. Today i don't take on other people's problems. Especially when i don't even know their fucking name. Hello!

The girl downstairs had an apartment almost identical to mine. Except for one key feature. The girl upstairs has VAULTED CEILINGS. Bitch! That would be me. I suspect. What with all the names she called our landlady in the span of five minutes while she showed me the bulge in her bathroom ceiling where apparently the water was collecting or WHO KNOWS WHAT.

The girl downstairs asked the girl upstairs, downstairs, without even asking really, to cosign on her conviction that the landlady was an alcoholic nightmare, post menopause. Well, i added the last part for effect.

You know, i really just had to introduce myself to this girl downstairs, before making my slow exit and tracing my path back upstairs and out of hell. Back to my vaulted ceilings and my bathroom which she had decided was imminent to COLLAPSE. It can be really hard not to cosign people who are strangers with convictions and right up in your face. And leading you around like that. I have to say I was rather uncomfortable by the whole kitten kaboodle.

But lucky for her, I wasn't gonna lead her into the street and allow a truck to run her down. I probably could have, because she was so lost in a zone of fury. But I am glad I smiled politely and excused myself. I said we could talk later, you know, WHEN THE FLOOR COLLAPSED AND DROPPED ME INTO HER BATHROOM. Maybe sometime this evening. I can't wait.

-by Katya, 09/15
(pssst... up until midnight PST, today only, my novel is free on amazon).

Saturday 14 September 2013

the czech (a poem)

'The Czech'
dedicated to Daniela

She held the whole scene
in macro
in her chopped

She held the energetics
In a moving

By land

draft copy

the lens
through which she
saw was
the lens
through which we all
saw was

in spring
in fall
in summer
in winter

a slight
tinge of
homage to
tributary from

which called
and called
and called
and dialed up


There she was
in the foreground
my friend
the Czech

Choppy Dialect
wraps of scarves
continuity of thought

There she was
my friend
the Czech

Having traveled so very far
her heart
wrapped in silks
in my lucky

She loved to dance
she could recite a mantra
She enjoyed a vodka
and maybe a smoke

or two
or three
or ten
never enough

She traveled by Jeep
through tunnels
through lucid dreams

When we got together
when she arrived
i felt the reunification
every time
with all my heart
what was left of it

She would
humbly disown
generously loan
whatever she had
if she could
and did

Still I could never
get enough
of her

We traveled by Jeep
when we could
the fabric
our friendship
around us

And the light
many a dark night
collected around her
and sustained us

The light
what was left of it
collected around us
sustained us
until dawn

the light
the fabric
my friend
the dawn

-by Katya 09/13

Tuesday 10 September 2013

'Girl Without Borders' -Romantic Suspense

'Girl Without Borders' by Katya Mills

Katya's self-published novel is free just for today on Amazon
(can be read  on any computer via free Kindle Cloud application)

Currently ranks #89 in the Romantic Suspense category!!
please give me an honest review on Amazon, if you read
thank you!  -K

Tuesday 3 September 2013

culture push (a poem)

The sea flattened the dunes
And kept on rolling
Claiming land


Lapping its message
Wave by wave into my mind
Like some unwanted culture push

The sea kept on rolling
And rolling
Claiming land
Without a deed

Rhythmically putting me to sleep
Washing over me
Like a dream...

The children made their dreams out of sand
Exquisite upon the land
Then watched as the sea
Slowly pulled the sheets on it all

The sea
There it was
Pulling all their dreams
In waves on down the shore...

The smallest children
Got to laughing
At that big old sea
After crying

Trying to carry their dreams
Away from them
That big old sea
Silly sea!

All would fall
Easily asleep
To the sound of the sea
Rolling on and on

Giving back all the dreams
It once took away

The big old
Great merciful sea
With its give and take
Push and pull

Carrying the divine
In its culture push

-Katya, 09/13