one seven

when we were kids 

morbid was going to the cemetery dressed in black

even youth wants to make sense 

of death

#katyamills

 

semisweet ending

when i die bury me pen in hand

typewriter for a stone. do not trust your sight

or touch the body scentless

cold and frightful in the ground

while my spirit seen there

wanderin the cemetery grounds leans

off a row whistling some

semisweet show tune




#katyamills

Indy Author Vitamin K reads from her book Maze

In the last episode 2:15:2 Ame and Bless are circling round the anarchy of the cemetery grounds where they once made out years ago. Sunset bleeds the sky. Back at the Imperial, all that's left of Kell is her boosted makeup and Nylon magazines. Bless is watching and waiting for Ame to show her some love.

Book Two
Daughter of Darkness
Chapter 15:3

Do Not Resuscitate (Journal # 05.24)

No one would wish not to have memory, and no one could argue that living in the moment was easier without it. I had a past I wanted to lose. I thought about it, and this was the problem. I liked a cemetery very much, I found it easier to talk to the ones who were gone cause the dead don't lie to your face or play games. Forgiveness is unresponsive until you breathe some life into it. The First Aid classes do not teach us how. Only the living carry Do Not Resuscitate orders on their wrists. I got over the memories but my subconscious could not let go, all the old situations appeared in different configurations in my sleep.

All I can do is put on my most comfortable slip and fold myself into my most comfortable sheets, rest my head on my most comfortable pillow, with the sweetest feeling of air pushed by blades, accompanied by my furry friends and the softest light on the backs of prayers I hum into space.

Journal #05.08.15

The spirits of the deceased could be found all around. There is a child in a bird. Her tailfeathers have horizontal lines, markings, cream-colored. We are looking for her wooden tombstone, the only one left of hundreds now destroyed by the elements and time. A girl who died in 1893. The bird leaves the tree and shows us her tail feathers prominently. The cream lines. Our bird flies in an arc, in a direction, and then back to the tree. We follow our own path to the same destination. Dusty lines. We are spirits. Equals. In the same place and time. We are free in a nonlinear yet static context. Our lives are wooden, not stone. They will decorate these lands and these times. To be part of the great spirit. Creativity is a use it or lose it affair. And still we are creations. And will be destructions. And recreations. The context is there. Gravity holds us to land. The bird has its wings, to put spirits in flight. But there are other forces at work, greater forces beyond any concern of gravity. I wrap the food in napkins and place it in my bag. The sun has decimated my energies. The coffee has worn off and dehydration setting in. A couple of kids dressed in black and purple, bring new life into the cemetery. The wooden tombstone is hiding beneath some rose bushes. This is how it survived all this time. The inscription is impossible to make out. There are greater forces, beyond any need for inscription. Our lives are written across the sky. Death does not exist in this world of static flux. Context can be archived. Paradigms may shift. The earthquakes may help us toward the truth kept in the earth. Tornadoes cleaning skies. I will disappear into the dust. Then see me swimming with four fingers on my left hand. My legs become a fish tail. Dive down with me into our resurrections. One word at a time. The sun feels better, underwater.