nine nine

the plants she had tended to from shoots in the pot gave her a recent bloom and she applied ample blush under the lashes. lines darted out from the corners of her eyes and betrayed her true age. fuck it. she wiped all the makeup off. I am old. I am wise.

 #katyamills

25

1998. love life lacking. movement from ocean side of florida to inner city chicago. dreams of cultural context to inspire, a wealth of journal entries in a leather bound book given you by your brother. you ride two wheels on a bike manufactured by japan. you are running away from something, you don't know what. you haven't learned anything outside of books. you hunger for the streets. thirst for excitement. you had it really good. soft and sea bound. you are about to get your ass kicked @ 25. willingly.

we are young

The days run away and I cannot do anything about this, I do not understand my age. I suppose we are all very young, even the very old, and this appeases the cruel god who comes out from time to time to command us away, life changes and we are not welcome anymore...
                                                                                                                  you are done with me and i am done with you and all our messy nonsense of two thousand three hundred forty-five yesterdays. I cannot say what came over me but i remember crying when i knew i was no longer gonna be protected or saved. I was to be blooded and charged with my Appetite For Destruction and to carry all the old Lies again, in rare form; they coulda made a fine killer of me, at the academy...
                                                                                                                                                            what I want to say is, losing you, this was one of the saddest of neverending losses, what i wanna say is sorry. and you have no need to forgive me unless it helps you -- please -- i think i forgave myself but i wonder -- when i hurt -- thinking of all the times you told me fuck off  

before i finally did

Journal # 03.02.15

I wish I will live in self-forgotten. For now I look into the fog. Then turn on the space heater. My kittens all curled up in different rooms. They need the heat more than I do. One is topping a wicker basket of clothes. Another is curled upon the bed. The third, the lone wolf, on the belly of the armchair in my kitchen. I sit at my desk and wonder how life got its limits, so endless the moment it seems. I dare not look into the future. When all my kittens are gone. When perhaps I am here, at this same desk, with new kittens. Traitor! With new poems on my tongue. New paperbacks to my name. Ebooks on kindle. Traitor! I have forgiven myself already. For life trudging on. Forgive myself, towards self-forgotten. And once I forget myself complete? It will be left for someone else to remember who I was.

the girl whose temples -iv)

Irregardless of age, race, creed, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, ability, disability, awake, asleep, dreaming, fantasizing. Life was almost unbearable for her now. Irregardless of age, time, potential, history, or conscious presence. Irregardless of proprioceptive superstandard socialscapes and escapes.

Suck the colors out and it’s a fact. Thank god she could see it for what it was, almost unbearable but not. Or don’t thank god or anyone. Whenever she came to the crux of a decision to live or die, the choice was easy. Live. Experiment. Play with options. Do it differently, with no expectations. Except to suffer still. To love a lot. To feel a lot. To have a hamster in a wheel in her head who never stopped running. What an experiment! She put on her labcoat and stockings and sexy swag fitted label eyewear, her rose-colored lenses, and found her thirst for life. Yes, another day would come to pass of misinterpretation of her. Accepting it, sidelining all that crap, going back to the lab, had to be her undeniable satisfaction.

In a world that could offer little solace through bloodlines.
In a town that courted all its layman judges.
Citizens arrest. Unwelcomeness.
On a path that led to no known end.

The silence and her favorite drink, the feelings she did or did not feel, the strange form she took getting bigger herself every day as they tried to make her small by cruelties they inflicted or unkind words they would say, those around her... what influence had they? Maybe some. Maybe alot. But she tried to appreciate the ongoing evolution of her self. In trying she was almost able. And she tried to appreciate her only known given life almost as much as she could... and almost, she could.

 In subsidiary was the account of the days of her youth... through a precipitation of all things heretoformentioned and avowed... through the fallen rain of colored locks of hair... through which all ugly jaundiced countenances saw to the unconditional freeze of her powerful icy stare...in this antiquated world of salons and sociopolitical theatrics of penelopes and patricks...of bulbs bare and loud enough to make the head ache...until a dull scream fell out of some poor child’s mother’s spleen. Or so somebody said. Fell out and fell down on the ground with a thud. Like an ice cream cone scoop of dark semisweet chocolate. Insensate.

 She would not rub her temples then. Postmortem.
 She would have.
She could not rub her temples then.
She would have if she could have.
She did not rub her temples because someone else.
Someone else knew.
Someone else knew what she would not do.
Someone else knew that she could not do but would have if she could have.

 Someone else rubbed our friends temples with a fullness. A fullness that cannot come of judgment or jaundice or class action. A full indescribable spontaneous burst of parenthetically deserted straight up true natural overflowing...some semisweet one got her back.

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