turn on

makes me happy to turn a friend on to writing a blog. anyone whose been disenfranchised or marginalized, who cannot contribute to their community through mainstream channels, may benefit by one. the last person i turned on told me a week later what it has done for him. for several hours after i post, he said, i feel good. like ive accomplished something important. i have six followers too.

life i love you. good friday

"Quiet life on softened streets, all the bad news backed away. You lucky kid. I washed my hair with 100,000 molecules. Each one like the full moon tonight, lighting up life in all the right ways. I made it to the site. I could peacefully fold my legs up under me on the couch facing the east, the house where nobody's home, facing, pinching my slip as I picked it up and let it go hang around freely, pinching myself. You lucky kid you. All the pages were viewed, in a free sweep of eyes (not mine). To be sure they really existed, outside of myself. Not so easily destroyed by water, heat, air, time. Thumbs rubbing the ink to a fade I can no longer describe. Each curve of every letter like the full moon tonight, lighting up life in all the spectacular finishes. Flourishes. You lucky kid. Thinking of a friend, one I haven't even heard of in years, a keystroke away, a daydream, attacking a search engine with a heart on a saturday in America, one truffle at a time, pulling lightly on the ends of twisted plastic until the whole thing rolls over and out, examining the condition of my condition, remembering the ionic bond even if it hurts. Life I love you."   - KatYa, 2016. excerpt from Ame and the Tangy Energetic

k by k on a sunny day 2016

K reads... 'to those who are true and unafraid'

Spoken word by Katya Mills,
original material from K IS SILENT
all rights reserved



Yes, this is all i can tell you. we loved one another for a very long time, okay. the flowers you braided in my hair i then pressed close to my heart, petal by petal, colors bleeding into my bloodstream, then out my pores and touching you touching me.

You carried me some times, part of the way. this was my path in yours. we could fight it, or we could like it. Or we could try to like it or love one another and our selves through it, embrace it, take it, appreciate it, hold it in our hands and hold it up to the light, let it reflect in the light. absorb the light and take notice of the shadows also where they recessed. how they came over and dampened the heat of the white light, softened its potency...

The lines in our skins, the patterns, the spirals, the curve that our eyes traced and followed, lost and found, dipped into and cooled, rose out and ascended with our spirits to the open air. the boys who showed love all the time on front street. some curious. wondering. most admiring. nice and sweet. strangers and how we meet. and we made an organic whole. the wholeness we saw, they saw and reflected back to us. well that would bring on smiles. that would last, remember? for a little while at least.

We were really of the same kind, the same blood. this would only matter if we cared to come in line and believe in it, the world, in us, our family, in self, our selves. this seemed to me, the youngest, another chance for that to die for kind of attention. received when i was not wanting or needing something impossible for you to give. because this is true. that we are our most formidable challenges. this i would risk it all on. the whole house i do not own. the health i still possess, on a youth level. a phsyiological level.

The psychology is only so prominent as our experiences. the heavy traumas are fresh and remembered in my daily life, i cannot help how they run. they run sometimes close to the surface like salmon running home. The subtle ones are deep running, like they do not move at all, my eyes might suggest. nothing going on down there, just peaceful easy subcurrent substorm lethargy of egg guarding and backward pull of crayfish tailspins. 

Yes, these are subdued or so seem. but you and i we have together swum the waters from top to tail. we have gone with, against, and stubbornly for the sake of love and love lost... i can say embedded in my heart, i often most did so unremitting and unfashionable. not so pretty, and without fail.

Well... at our best, we were grace.

Vox Witness (vw)

An inch worm
a centipede
one hundred days of
war

a nickel bag
a dollar store

a disturbing
violent
creed

penny candy
millipede
a mother and
a whore

a subterranean route
out of Syria no doubt
is what the people
need

the horse fly
on baby's breath

neglected
left for death

the aristocracy of effort
is blogging through the
mud

wondering how to translate
words to save our
flesh and
blood



Katya Mills, 2014
all rights reserved

young family portrait @ dawn

The day started well. We were asleep, as the night folded in and retreated, real quiet like. Real nice. Left without anyone knowing she left. After sharing her stars and her sweet summer darkness. Her shade cooled the earth and the air and the waters. She asked nothing in return, no, nothing at all. The night she retreated, and the day came, to call.

The air was a cool fifty. The sound of the silence was heavy, delicious. Like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Quiet. Rich. Impermeable and whole. The air, a cool fifty, going on fifty-five. Circulating through town, with the taste of corn and scent of almond, and sweet summer wildflower. She carried the scent of sweet wildflower honey.

Then the birds started up, politely, maybe two at a time. The calls they repeated, maybe three by three times. Then tried out a different spacing, between breaths. Carefully setting the tone. Up in the trees, or down under eaves. Outside the home, in a nest papered with leaves.

 A clock am radio, at a low volume humm. Some nightshift wonder, still talking fresh into the day. With a warm-hearted colloquial, and a laughter contagion. Rare few would catch it, the laughter contagion. The lucky night owls. He shared his thoughts so sweetly, and with such elation. Through speakers. Talking to anyone. Drinking hot coffee in his sneakers. Laughing about kids in his life, maybe nephews and nieces. About coming together...or falling to pieces.

The day started well. The air a cool fifty. The birds set the tone. Against the graveyard shift dj and the wonderful silence. The box fan shared generously, the breeze from the delta. We felt it come over us, in our dreams and subconscious.

We were all asleep in the apartment. The Tibetan bell hung from the ceiling fan, softly chiming every once in a while. The ceiling fan spun slow on its calmest rotation, pushing the moist delta breeze, pusing fifty. Pushing it around. The air did not care. Kinda liked to be touched.

The moon was running high, when it started to fade out, like an ice cube dropped into a warm summer sky. The moon, she had offered us all many chances. Chances for romances in the tall grasses. Chances to find what we otherwise lost. Chances to appeal to some final burst of energy. Some reservoir typically untapped. The moon offered chances, before fading out. In the tall grasses, in the outskirts. In the outskirts of the city.

The sun came up slow and easy. Would have been shot down in a gunfight. So there would be no gunfight, not when the sun appeared that way. The day anticipated peace. The scavengers hung their heads and searched the soil for worms. The sun warmed the earth, and made the day up like soft clay. The sun made the day. The day like soft clay.

We all awoke to this. This soft day of clay and moist air, set into tranquility. With birds and clock radios, calling us out. Circulating air a cool fifty. Summer dawn sun and moonlight, kinda blue.

You and me, and the kittens make four. Four little creatures inside a small house. We all awoke, all four, all four of us. Number: 4. We all awoke in one room, but only one at a time. One by one by one by one. First was the kitten, the orange one, to be sure. The orange tiger tabby woke up by your feet. By your feet, in the sheet, curled up by your feet.

Next was me, I woke up next. Back to your chest. My soft summer feeling arose from hard, wicked dreams. My countenance, upset. Almost disturbed. But my youth returned to me in a flash, not just thoughts but some feeling. I could feel your arms around me, and your body come up against me. I was harbored by you, that's why I smiled in the sheets. The cats were curled up like some ropes around cleats.

I smiled in the sheets, by the bay window there. In the cool air. The blue white light. With the kittens at our feet. This was so welcome, like the sound of the birds and the box fan and radio. Like the silence that surrounded and harbored us, each morning.

You were still asleep, next to me. Next to me. I was slowly awakening to the light of the day. And the orange tiger tabby, who awoke first of four? His big brown eyes looked in mine. Up from a valley, behind the white sheets. Behind the pure dream of my waking, and yours. With the light from the east, and you by my side. With a kitten by the west wall and another by the east. And those beautiful brown eyes.

Those golden brown eyes. Your golden brown skin.
My pale figure, heavy rising up from the bed. To replete the hummingbird feeder, with liquid sugar. To get some OJ out of the freezer. To pour orange into blue cup.

Then you raised your pretty golden head. And you got yourself up.
Then the cat by the west wall, stretched up like a pony.
The kitten. The west wall. The starch sheets and moist air. The blue and white dawn of the day, so clear. I awoke next to you, next to you, my dear.

by Katya 07/13
kissilent.wordpress.com

my friend the diy queen and killer (and lead singer for the bacon maybes)

Let me tell you about my old friend. The DIY Queen. Stitched her own clothes. She was that kinda chick. I am sure she would have homeschooled her kids, had she lived long enough to have kids. She was just that kinda wonderfully eccentric. Licked her stamps, long after stamp licking went out of fashion. She refused to buy the stickers. You couldn't tell her half of nothing! Patched her bicycle tubes with the old-fashioned patches. Thats how they got her DNA (the stamps, not patches), the detectives who tracked her down somewhere between Boulder, Colorado and Roswell, New Mexico. She wasn't able to run no more. She had broken her leg, on stage, after eloping with a clown. Such is the common result of fabricating your own shoelaces from yarn. Eloping with clowns, that is, not breaking a leg.

She was long gone just before then, long gone from California and where we grew up together. She sent a postcard to the State Fair and all its entertainers. That's how they caught her. Through those postcards she wrote to create alibis for herself, the profilers later said on the news. Selfish-like! That's the reason I decided to write this, here. Because someone needs to set the record straight. And I can tell your for damn sure! She never sent a postcard selfish-like in her all-2-short life! I know. I even have the sweet postcards she sent me, to prove it. But it's all too late for that, now. They claimed for a fact she wrote postcards selfishly, for appearances. Not to cement friendships. And she prioritized the envelopes with little sky blue Par Avion  stickers, thinking flight would hasten delivery from out of state. She conveniently forgot the extra postage required, they suggested.

She addressed the postcard in question to: 'family '. Yet those damn fool profilers and lawmen done her wrong, simply to do her wrong. Because she was the diy killer. Well, let me tell ya. She may be the diy killer to you, but she was my diy Queen!

The postcard was delivered by a truck without wings. The driver of the truck drank coffee from machines, and endlessly smoked smokeless e-cigarrettes. Just like her. Lucky for him, commonality ended there. He was simply an inconspicuous courier for the communique of a murderess, they said. That's why they could not pick her up sooner. She was too much of a yarn-laced straight shooter. An environmentalist. Contributor to the Save the Manatee campaign. No ifs. No ands. And No butts. She gave a shout out to technology, before they remotely switched the fatal dose of electricity into her (After her last request e-cigarrette with the near fatal dose of chemicals, in an e-filter she had put together DIY style during her many clocks on death row).

All the wannabe amateur tattoo artists shed an extra ink tear that day, for her. She had revolutionized the making of ink guns behind bars, among other things. The pivoting needles she made with smuggled ball bearings and button wheels, had earned her the nickname Rosie the Pivoter, which was a great promotion from her original name Suzie the Shuffler. She had not been overmedicated, however. Little did they know when they named her, she was simply effecting static electricity by the soles of her shoes.

No one at the California State Fair could remember her at first. The bearded lady finally ID'd her, with help from the psychic and a lineup, and some vague threats and from certain cops, not the least of which was to shave her face. This happened after the suggestion of near future financial windfall (not the shave, the ID). In the midst of a healthy reward, posted by an cuckolded clown. The bearded man (a detective) turned the whole thing over and over in his mind looking back. He felt disturbed. He had a strange attraction to the bearded lady. This attraction became an immense and lifelong distraction and burgeoning addiction to hirsute porn. So they say. He stuck the postcard to a lonely corkboard, with a paperclip he straightened into a pin. When questioned about his methodology by the chief of police, he suggested he was trying to live inside the head of the alleged diy killer. The chief screwed up his eyes, then called upon the local stock employee to stock the detective's office desk with pushpins.

They had the diy killer by her own confession, finally. What other way could there be? She took great pride in having taken the law in her own hands so naturally, in her vainglorious DIY-style. Her band, the Bacon Maybes, may have made their debut the following year, had she not been locked up. No one will ever know what kind of fame they would have achieved, Rosie the Pivoter and the Bacon Maybes, outside of her great infamy.

Far as I can tell, she was the first DIY Queen, I mean, she was mine. We made our own kombucha. She taught me. It was a nasty start, but it was a start. Ultimately she made good on her promise to one day have her own hens to lay her eggs she could crack in the frying pan. Plenty leftover to trade for milk and cheese at the farmer's market, or for hard boiling. Hell, if she had lived long enough to have had her own land, I wouldn't dare bet against her trafficking in just about anything the earth can turn up. Give her the sun, a hose and some dirt, and pretty much anything and everything was made possible.

But not men. She did quietly outsource them her whole life. She confided in me how she loved the adrenaline rush of a one night stand. Made me shiver. She was a modern woman. Not a feminist. Not traditional. Just a single mom by choice. She didn't hate men. She loved whomever was worthy of her love. Whom just so happened to be clowns, most of the time. Not losers, mind you. Clowns. Entertainers. Entertainers of children and families alike. They loved her, and she loved them. She could accessorize a clown with enough of her inventions to draw his act out a half hour or more. And you thought flowers that spit water and noses that honked like horns were special? Please. I don't have time to go into it, but please! We are talking about my diy Queen.

She just made her choices, with the experiences she had been given. Long ago, when she was still a teenager, she got caught up with a boyfriend turned sneaker pimp. Soon he had her pulling tricks. By proxy of another bad habit she learned from him: phenobarbital washed down with margarita mix. The storebought kind. Corn syrup with a whole tie-dye list of artificially flavored, numbered colors. The nightmare was over almost before it started. She was far from a pimp's paradise. Within a year or two, well, she was sleeping in her own bed again. He was nowhere to be found. Not just not in her bed, I mean. Nowhere. The sneakers, without the pimp.

The way I like to look at it? I guess one of them was bound to disappear, anyhow.

I choose to remember my friend, I knew. Not the DIY whore she became. We used to chew on licorice stalks, and talk serious about light things like cloud formations on an otherwise partly sunny day. She had this magic of making light of what was serious, and vice versa. We made eachother laugh. She inspired me to see things differently. We once had an benevolent kinda influence on us. Evolution of trust. if you ever heard of trust before. Trust existed way back when, before tv and sedentary life of suburban planning, when people had to rely on people to survive. Before culture began to stall like seems to do, now. Before shit got so comfortable. Before the able became the dysable. So simple it makes no sense, no more.

Profile: filter systemics, 2013 -iii)

She tried to grab her identity before anyone else. In the year 2050, this was a hopeless prospect. Babies were suing multinational corporate enterprises focused on this niche. They called it the born-on-capture initiative. And sadly, they had bricks and mortar presences within a mile radius of every major children's hospital in every major American city. These enterprises were expanding exponentially, and the Supreme Courts in every state were so bogged down with the useless appellate productions coming through the judicial systems in waves, on such trite milled over morality plays as abortion, same sex marriage, and gun control, they could devote little time to proper slashing and burning of the heads of this now fifty-headed monster.

The only way to handle the situation was to invest in the temporal portal merchandise which would enable the jumpback to 2013 (although not guaranteed  successul) to remedy the situation via introducing a personal profile element now getting good marks on consumer reports and widely praised by the BBB better business bureau. Even Yelp, which would slowly be pushed out of the consumer ratings market by Squeal and Sigh, had remarkable traffic from avatar and gravatar subscribers, commenting on this particular element.

This element was getting a cult following, for sure. Geeks and tech-heads were definitely the first to understand it all. Props to them. They could save their money in 2050, because they had already invested in filter systemics and thus, their profiles were firewalled and their identities were safe. The rest of us were having to pay for parts at the identity salvage yards popping up everywhere. And, as the auto industry before them, you can bet these salvage yards were in bed with the towtruck webcrawlers, and milking and bilking consumers.

There was even a giant resale market of piecemail identity components, aggregating out from Eastern Europe's satellite-fueled under and overground, no longer cottage industry. The industrial revolution long-since revamped to environmental demands in the Western world, was still a wilderness the East, and a playground for Saudi third world industrialists headquartered above the clouds in Dubai.

The more surreptitious operations fueled by tax dollars of second world governments' peoples, were now in their infancy in locations only accessible by nuclear submarines or otherwise military zoned; Atlantis (under deep sea shelves around the globe), the Bermuda Triangle (mythically-feared and thus perfect for government sanctioned embedding) hashmarked areas outside Las Vegas (whether alien-inhabited or not), the Lyndon Johnson atoll, within and without the recently flooded Japanese reactors, Siberia. All locations were of course inaccessible to all but the most elevated credentialled contractors (most farmed out from the former NSA's and KGB's of the world), and, legend has it, had harnessed great teams of accountants to work over the tax dollars for slick conversion into operative dollars.

Katya Mills, 07/13 kissilent.wordpress.com
[Remember, this is fiction: You didn't hear it from me! ]