anchor a bridge in a sea

we wanted it to be something it was not. we so badly wanted it. the distance between us made for sadness. for confusion. for anger you had to push aside again and again. and again. the distance grew. it would take years to anchor a bridge in this sea. it's no use being angry i'd rather be sad. it's no good being sad and alone. not having it the way you want it. the way you believe it could be. but it's not.   #katyamills

dys.mantle it

they pick your bones

because they can and 

you're supposed to take it

capitalism says so

you haven't figured how

to dismantle that so you get drunk and sad

turning your anger

inward   #katyamills 

25.19

the color red
the heat in my fists
transforms when
i wait it out

what is left?
little heartache
it's not so bad
come we can live

together

ORION

Orion and I was tryin to love you but it was hard. We cannot always be sure of ourselves in every way, and when I broke out (in anger) the words hurling and curling their way lugubrious in the chill of autumn air,  and you there; I seemed unable to stop myself so righteous and defiant for a five minute drive home from dinner.  God it was the worst of me. Of course I took to rest by the sounds of postseason baseball curious to the darker mood. I wanted the electricity back. But we all sometimes short circuit. I woke with an apology on my lips and typed it into a text. You were calling, calling me, but in these early hours of the morning on my free days the only one i talk to is in my slippers out on the back porch with the long hooded sweater woven black and white around me staring up to the heavens missing the moon, I mean Orion.

jamming the transmissions

I could be accused of feeling my way through the world and it's not so bad. I would rather be a disheartened sentimentalist   than a computer or a religious fundamentalist. I guess I am still learning not to react, to check my feelings by my reason. I wouldn't shut them off. A world without feeling is a cold place, anyone who lives there could show and tell you. Most supposedly even-tempered people, are they really smooth around the edges? Don't most of them have a vestibule full of anger jamming their transmissions? Won't this pressure need to blow like an aortic aneurysm, and soon? And the people closest to them will naturally get the blowback. The residue at the bottom of a pot left on the stove to boil dry. I return to my seat in the auditorium. The giant screen. The sentimental film. And have a good cry.

Journal. mood manufacturing

Notes from the mood manufacturing plant...

It is Friday here at the mood manufacturing plant, and all whistles are singing your praises in an emotive appeal. The ventilators are venting all moods colored red. The transducers moving them straight from the head. Come see our blue room for a good cry. An assembly line of grief counselors reconstructing the tears. We fill up the clouds and send them up and away. To irrigate your dried out and rational demeanor. If we mix the reds and the blues, for a slightly larger sum, we can brew up a real nasty storm - and then some. Manufacture some drama, it  certainly won't be the norm. What would you like? Some celebrated success? A moulten euphoria? Your pride, undressed? A smoking hot aura? See here! We canned vulnerability in brine. The saline of premium salts off the vine. Wholesale we offer three episodic moments to the penny. All those memories could be refreshed, like old songs in your ears. It costs almost nothing, come now,  reduce yourself to tears.

Journal #03.22.15

I am not even close. I must be still healing. Please forgive me. The static waves of radio fill my head. Tonight I work in silence. I wonder about this fleeting sense of power, the delusion of self. I do not mind it anymore. Worry and anger and fear get us nowhere. Pain and the effort to feel and transform it. These are my tasks. Forgive my always anti-social media. I would that we were closer. I see you in my mind. Smiles. Meaningful connection. The ones who ignore me tell me as much about myself as those who meet my gaze. Purple frosty haze and lemon peel. To feel those feelings I would not feel. I searched the swirling seas for you. Through volumes and volumes thrashing. The truth would not lie still. I wanted to believe in what you said. In your words, in those books I read. I began to move and be moved. The mountains entertained the sun, one slope at a time. We raced our minds and won. Solitaire was King. Derrieres did swing. The hydraulics in the bus felt good under us, and the windshield wipers washed away everything. The nose was born to bleed. The harvest came of seed. The dogs and cats at best were friends, the mice we did not need. Times were rough of an industrial age. We raced the clock and lost. Turn the page. Come now to middle age. Cellular floors kept clean by the slaving macrophage. My work begins today, in middle earth. Accompanied by an orchestrated abandonment of fear, worry, and anger. I am getting closer now. I must be still healing. Please forgive me. The static waves of radio fill my head. I will always be grateful for you. Endless life.

eyes

my eyes were once innocent
now they are hard 
full of what they saw
on these city streets

my eyes were once innocent
then full of confusion

my eyes were confused
angry and young
and scared

my eyes
they were scared
now they are hard
like these city streets

my eyes
they are hard
but they soften
my eyes

my eyes
  they soften
    around truth