california unincorporated

up the hills
to the llama farms

fields of upturned soil
the black sheep tagging behind

unincorporated
california

into a clearing

in the darkness of a day
sunlight woven like cotton

round the swab

they ran

this one

don't need no help in hurtin

do they? a gardener declared

hands on her hips

self-demolished

exhausted
dejected

they ran

finally

into arms

#katyamills

kitten and kid

1-2-3 years in this world

shiny buckle shoes crayon tattoos 

cryin to go to school with big brother

sits with little kitten @ the window

facing her future   #katyamills

crisis of an overcast

the sun wanted to reach

the land
the sea
the beach

the sky asked why
the sun beseeched

a child would smile
a flower now open
the dullest of days
so very outspoken

for a second
it all opened up

the blue
was a much deeper
blue

mouse.child.swan

the mouse was hidden in the belly of a swan. the swan found some cheese someone left by a bench overlooking the pond, and though the swan did not care for dairy, ate the cheese anyway, hoping to feed the mouse something it liked. the mouse covered his face with his paws, so his whiskers would not tickle the swan. a child saw the swan and began to shout. the swan swam over to present itself to the child and untucked its wings gently, so as not to disturb the mouse in its belly. the mouse could sense the presence of the child, and uncovered his whiskers for a moment. the swan got tickled and flapped its wings, causing the surface of the pond to ripple and stir. the child cried out and jumped with joy. the swan got scared when it saw the commotion in its reflection, and began to rise out of the water with exceptional strength. an old lady walking along the path began to smile for the first time this day. the sun saw the old lady's smile and brightened up the world. the child yelled out at the top of his lungs. the mouse began to squeak, as it tried to keep its footing, and something dislodged from above and fell right beside him. he happily spent the remainder of the day in total darkness, floating out upon the pond, nibbling on the cheese. the old lady was home listening to the radio, sipping cognac. the boy was a mile away, lying on his belly, drawing pictures of the tv. 

god was involved

When they threw the book at you, you caught it and began to read. you sure had plenty of time, son. soon you were self-educated and ready to go out in the world. in your homemade uniform you promised to kick some pretty ass. you didn't even bother to comb your hair. a child playing with a deck of cards on a doorstep, looked up when you passed by. they stood up in their overalls and saluted you. that was the moment we knew god was somehow involved.

digital ink child

maybe the sweetest moment of writing a book
 comes when      the intangibles
                            the tangibles

coalesce into a unified

tale
whole fiction
       re.creation
    en.vision


abstracted (out) then dropped back (in) to the world

the conveyance
your child of
digital ink

 surrounds

like an atmosphere
like an aura
like a concert
like a principle
like a faith

maybe even warms a heart
or two

finally makes sense
and not only
to you

the child

O wide awake in America, big sky highway hollowing out the ears predawn, cut me like a cookie and may i taste good too, share myself with you and you and you, sweet sugar has me processed in dreams and tumbled out a foamy bed into my own personal despair, sliding down the inner sanctuary of a question mark to collect and drop whole you made of me, sweet sugary period, plastic in my blood, pharmaceuticals in my water, disaster strikes and i lick my lips like you and smile, but no one smiles like we do, upside down or kinda flat, tethered to the mobile phones we kill by our deep sleep, counting ringtones like sheep, shearing and swiping the hell out of an alphabet, on a jazz or classical base as the temperature begins to rise with the sun, another day washing dishes and dusting and cutting boxes the perfect size to ship my ass away to some infernal packaging depot to be fitted with my personal bar code, my very own, which is linear and bold, impervious to black mould, scanned or so I'm told, taped then situated in some draughty unremarkable corner in the cellar of a warehouse to grow old. All i know is no one can erase me even if they try, I am forever etched into your hard drive, America, no matter how the cleaners cleanse, efforts to coat me over bleach me out only leave my prominent lines bubbling up from the cracks and surfacing again with all the gasses, grilling the faces of the masses ordering me around, yet still i stay aloft in my dissociated safe place way up high, finding me in a cut up creatively commoned place looking down, streaming on your horizon, only the light protects us now in our projections. Back out where I belong, some ionic bond, trashing your paint job with my spraypainted flare, exposing your destination to the going nowhere, breaking out the bars when i decode the code, fingering you with my fingerprint, America, until you see your own stars and go black and white again, from Birmingham to Ferguson, up the checker board and Martin Luther King you at the end, redoubled on a chance, green felt absorbs your glance in a healthy tribal casino where all the bad blood is blue, you see, the karmic knot we work it out, massage it real well, strike it with needles until you finally falter, sweet vulnerable America shedding your suit, crying and opening like that before the seamstress. And my lines are out of order, spinning into circular pools fallen stars, and the many shades of blue wash over me and you, when the world forgives and finds a place in the heart for a renewable source, because somehow you were always meant to be pleasant on the eyes, America, and generous though talkative and combative perhaps, you wear out your welcome in a superfluous way, and everyone has a good laugh and pats you on the head, for you are the child and loved just the same. Back to bed now with prayers, and we will see you in the morning, the rubbing of eyes, tumbling down stairs in your nightgown, little one, big sky highway musculature, heavy with some imagined purpose, dreams of carbon and oxygen and coffee churning blue to black in post industrial aftermath, shining oily head to toe, shedding another skin, inspiring us with your renewals. I will be there, my love, somewhere in the corners of your eyes, sucking on Maybelline, about to exit the glistening curve and drop unseen into your wilderness... where i have always belonged.

on a murder

Last night before bed I read and I read, and I found a picture of a young girl in the Sacramento Bee who was killed in my city, in the dugout beside a diamond in a bad part of town, near where she lived with her mom and they fought, she stole her dad's Camels and headed out to the park, and swung on the swings with her Goth kinda look as described by the witnesses who saw her that night, after sunset in March, twenty twelve, after dark... they say she was unlike the style in the photo was released, where she looks like any American girl in the fifties, black hair kept up from her face, the bangs cut to the neck in a tame kinda way, this was not how she looked on that fateful night, after mom and the fight when she slipped away with dad's smokes, her hair was longer and pulled mostly over one side of her face, dripping down to the dirt as she hung her sad head, wishing to see dad with whom mom was estranged... two men in their twenties who saw her that night in the park asked if she felt safe, for no one was really no adults around, and she spoke with the confidence of an untested youth, she had a fight with mom and was not going home yet, she spoke out her truth and they left her, walked away in the dark ending light... some time later, they say, between eight and nine at night, when most kids are asleep tucked in by sheets white, she must have walked over across the fields by the diamond, then stepped down to the dugout maybe to hide herself from view, thinking it was safer and really who knew, she could have been lured by one of those young men who came by, it's all speculation no one really knows why he returned to accompany her for a smoke, to hang out... for they found his DNA and hers mixed into the snipes, nine butts on the ground, maybe six they had shared, the profile was submitted and just as they feared, the national database struck a match with a man ten years older, a domestic violence charge in his file, so they went to interview him for a while... he denied being there in Rosemont that night, denied meeting the girl at all, yet his friend (the other man on that fateful night) called him out as the one he was with in the park when they asked the girl was she safe when she wasn't, and they walked along to a third man's house who told the cops the two men talked about her before leaving, the girl in the park... so the cops had their man, locked him up for a trial, which began yesterday after a long delay, the defense lawyer balking at the profiled DNA, for many people do pick up cigarrettes already smoked, in low income areas and high income, too, to take the last drag before the filter is reached -- or to take the last breath of a girl whose been beaten and stabbed and asphyxiated to death, a middle schooler who came to an end too soon, found under a bench in the morning in her hoodie, with a hickey on her neck next to where she got stabbed, she must have resisted when she was grabbed... and no matter how it is framed, who did it or why, the loss of a child, a most painful goodbye.

we search ourselves at risk

In this life there are people who may be unable to understand you or what it is your trying to accomplish, and how you go about getting there. There are people who may be disrespectful toward you, or worse. If your paths have crossed by some intended accident, and you have had a good run at it as friends, well, your run may have run out. When the end comes we can feel lost and confused, hurt and resentful, misunderstood. Some things were not built to last. When I am by myself in the quiet and calm of my home, I try and think of the best times I had with anybody like that. Then, if I am still hurting by another air raid from bombs dropped on my head, I try and remember who I am and why other people seem to love me through it all, this life, while some cannot and never will and that is how it goes. If I find the need to untangle the elusive truth of any matter -- to settle it once and for all so my mind can rest -- I can walk myself through what happened and focus not on what was said between us but what was done. And there may I find anything approaching the truth, for normal self-seeking prejudice and pride can neither stand up to the evidence before me then. Feelings cannot discolor facts. And I can only hope that I took right action, for we search ourselves at risk! You cannot escape your behavior. It is a humbling experience to lose friends, for sure, and everyone will go through it and most of us will go through it many times over. If you find yourself malicious with words, it is a good idea to go silent.

Today I came into the dawn with one less hand to hold. Troubling words were exchanged over the course of recent weeks which left me lost and confused. I saw the turmoil of my emotions and how I gave voice to many troubling feelings and it was not always pretty. Last night I spent with close friends I have known for over twenty years, who were in town from Chicago with their young son and daughter. They camped in my backyard. I introduced the three year old to Lucky Charms, and now he cannot get enough. I was fortunate to hold a child on my knee. Then we said goodbye and I was back on my own. I had already gone silent on the dead sea of dead ends, because all I had to say anymore was selfish and useless. Instead I prayed for relief from that pain in my heart. And I took the risk. Then I took a long afternoon nap, and it was restful. And I woke up and sat up from bed and was scared coming back into the world without that old hand to hold. But a calm came over my spirit like no other! For I have been true. I have been true!

wild (a poem)

'wild'-- by KatYa
(image © words)


i tell you what
there will always be fresh lands
for us

see them out past the tears
past the years
recreate. old memory

the coffeehouse was
a fill-up station for
humans

i accelerated on out of there
and stopped only for
the child

looking
at me

i was a quick study
slowdown
i got down. low down

time disappeared
into a wrinkle in
the sky

i thanked the curious
eye

the little
one

i smiled not too wide
a little. one

to know it's
okay

how to?

mom today. dad today.
little brother on the way

i am emotional
too. i am a child
like you

you are
too

like a child
too

wild
too

me and
you

Journal # 03.17.15

Danger never apologizes for itself. Comes into my life and gets on my nerves. Makes me think, when I would rather enjoy my single origin coffee all quiet about the mind. Keeps me on my toes. Manifests in scared bodies throwing the weight of fear around. Meet danger in a dark and lifeless place. Watch your back. I can only hope to protect my body from harm. Keep your head. What is more certain yet less palpable? Defense of the spirit. Keep moving. Wear a protective amulet. Wear out your welcome in the true and loving communities.

'blue & yellow' by KatYa

 Not everyone gets to know me, anymore. It is that simple. I used to give myself to anyone. Spiritually. I was all tingly about the aura. My boundaries... what boundaries? Experience came to stay. Killed me a few times, only to refashion me as I am today. A warrior. A survivor. Not to be trifled with. I am still the sweet and generous soul you once knew. Yes. I am still soft and kind. I still laugh and I still cry. I still show a child to the trusted few. And you? Who are you? 

Journal # 03.12.15

I wanna stop all the nonsense and get back to the real. It is not for you to question me about what is real. It is not for me to decide what is real to you. This is what I like about it. Reality is personal. No one's got a lock on it. I used to smile watching people try to force their brand of reality down the collective throat. What an hopeless endeavor! The smile has gone away. I don't like to see how it hurts them trying. What a desperation about it. That's cold. Maybe I can talk to them. Maybe someone tried to shut them down, and told them what they think is real, is not. So now they are on a mission to show everyone just how real their real is? Maybe they just need to be seen and heard, and appreciated for a moment. Reassured that no one's gonna take their real away from them. Maybe that would help? There's a lot of wounded little children out there, in big adult bodies. Who am I to hate a wounded child? I wanna help a wounded child. I wanna help! Well, that's my real, anyway. I guess I just got back.

coloring

Blues ran into yellows in the rain, and burst green upon the scene. The olive drab of soldiers bobbed up and down. Prayers drifted in purple-lined clouds above them, holding fear condensate.

Someone smoked a rolly with their arms hanging over a molasses colored wall of old earth. A child was watching cartoons on a clean carpeted floor. His auntie with auburn up-do, was dusting down the bookshelves to the sound of looney tune orchestra, rain and marching boots.

She could see the back.of the man hanging over the molasses wall, and the nuanced transparencies of smoke exhalations, fog and breath. The sun might not peek out today, she thought, but no matter. An extraordinary day to be alive.

Blues ran into yellows in the rain, and burst green upon the scene.