votive remix

deceased lay the flower beds toxic and soaking perspiration thick as glue. we passed the ethereal fields cranked the shaft flipped a bitch and sailed due north, the agonists and antagonists darting out from the shadows. we released the nitrous oxide mixed with half and half burned the white sage whole off the stern.

petitioned a ragtag battalion of orcas like white blood cells to seal in the heat, caustic energies aft and starboard, signals blaring into the night. the candles they flickered and danced.  #katyamills

two clicks and a book

I do not write mysteries. Writing is the mystery and a book, a puzzle piece, a small part of being solved. I am wondering if I have what I need to do what I wish to now do? The magic number, I make it fourteen. Two weeks, to get back to you. To immerse myself in the colorful cove of creative process, and finish what I started a little over a year ago. There is a battle on our screens, online, for our eyes, our attention, our desires. When we are tired, they win. I go to do something creative and if I make one mistake, chasing down an email or a tweet - any packet of information - I may be sucked to the bottom of a sloping hill of mud, two clicks away, marching my way up and back to reclaim my sacred land... but always two clicks away. I wonder if I have what it takes to stand my ground? I have all my rations, all my munitions, and all my comrades around me. I have my health and my family, and my faith. I can easily recall when the world came over me, a long shadow before a setting sun. I plodded my way through the deepest night. Lost, I surrendered; and they had mercy on me. I don't know how or why. I was a pitiful starved creature, lunatic raving and howling, chained to an iron post on a cracked island of asphalt. I was the one who broke dumb from the pack. Now they saw I was no threat and marched me through a wasted land of drought. I focused on the stars of windless night until I was one, too, the smallest and farthest away. And brighter grew. I stretched for the sun out of a cold, dark place only I inhabited. Not at first, but soon I was touched. I found something there I cannot describe. In the poverty of speech one may call it 'god' - if only to relate. The thing which keeps me bright. This thing which can keep me up all night. That which helps me shine through darkness. Immerses me in sacred process, helps me hold my ground. In fourteen days or not, two clicks away and shot, from the bottoms ever climbing... I wonder will I find my way, and back to you? Otherwise, this book may live a lonely life in my heart.

Journal # 03.05.15

If I found you now, so many years later, would we get along? What would time have done to us? So many years and you expect time will heal. Well, what if time insisted something terrible into consciousness. Dragged its corpse out from under a house for us to see? Then could we meet and have a grand old fight been waiting for years. Or have walked through the fire by ourselves, to a pointed forgiveness. We might even sit somewhere nice and quiet and talk it over. And what if one of us has sharks swimming in their eyes, and the other has backlight of a thousand halos? Then we shall roll up our sleeves and sharpen our nails and show our teeth. Maybe, if we are lucky, we will meet again, you and me. And after all is said or done, we can hold hands.

immune

The attacking poison would pay dearly. 
She activated her immune response via
subtle movements, CNS defined. 

The battlefield she oversaw,
 expanded over time.

The poison wept in amber waves of  
venom tears, for hours (felt like years). 

For fallen was to be its fate. 
And stained, the back, with civil war. 
Her flesh inscribed and sore.

The platelet ranks advanced some more. 
Expounding all the while, the triumphant cries of war. 
She counted blood cells to her sleep, 
to battle, single file.

The morning came all fog and wet,
 in sheets white where she lay. 
She felt dissension in the ranks, 
cerebral moored in clay.

The immune victorious had taken ground,
 far beyond her reach. 
She could not stop the growing fervor
now burning up her breast. 
Far beyond good and evil, 
comme Nietzsche.

She wrapped her all in white flag sheets,
 to call off her directive.
In streaks red across the spine and limbs, 
her system, unselective. 

The overcompensate immune, 
in hanging heat of noon.

She had to rise above the madness, 
so summoned the divine.
Her salve was god, prayer and rest. 
And irrigation, calamine.