pacman

 a kid of the eighties i

was there when the first computers 

came home. color graphics

with sound effects. joystick some

second dimension golden cheese wheel

floating through a maze swallowing 

ghosts

#katyamills

not.getting.it.ness

I fell into my own fantasy as a keeper of the flame for the children new to fresh books books books. Even fantasies have antagonists and she was a beast, she related well to the kids what with her smiles and false promises. They wanted what she did not have, and fresh matte finish covers became less attractive as the eyes tend to follow the shiny dangler. So what? An asshole relates quite well to other orifices, I imagine, and cannot recuse themselves from toxic flushing, outlyers from anywhere life might thrive. I could only bring a few around to the treasures of reading, but we could proliferate from there. You know, kids tell other kids about a book and soon everyone is reading it. That was the best aspect of my fantasy. Funny how it used to be a reality, back in the Harry Potter days, the Chronicles of Narnia Days. These children were born with google roadmaps of life, and Marvel movies where once we had comic books. Maybe if I pulled the old trading card trick and attached sticks of bubble gum to the spine. Anything to greet them with language and keep them from falling into her world, the common unconscious of not getting-it-ness. Fighting for space. Craving intimacy. Technologically sound. Animals equipped with smart phones doing three quarters their mental work for them. Grades by emojis and trading in texts, subjugated to a subhuman comment thread without end. I dont even consider her subjects of the same genus as we. I just see elephant seals fumbling about for dying, flopping fish. Mammals with computers and electric outlets. Mall grubbing video grabbers. Android celluloid.

illuminated (by a screen)

Anything I do not have and want is not gonna change how I am or how I feel about myself when I am alone, is it true? I would ask the internet but the internet may not be my friend. If the ghost comes to walk me through my past many years from now, when I am an old lady staring at the sun through my stigmatism,  enjoy the walk and be bored to death by the hours upon hours regarding the young lady in her apartment typing away at the computer, i mean, the ghost will drift away (hoping I won't notice) to someone else's brilliant past I am sure. Oh well. I am illuminated by my goddam screen. So what. I don't and won't have kids. So what. I stopped doing half the things I loved to do. So what. I'm a gen X internet baby. So what. Anything you do not have and want is not gonna change how you are or how you feel about yourself when you are alone. So there!  xxxx  - K

'wet dream on dry toast'

Aka - 'computer dissociative'

original material from K IS SILENT (partial)

The olive oil days were over. He should have known. He beat his head into the mahoganey like Perry Mason lost a case. So began the vinegar taste in the back of his throat, phase. He felt a feeling he knew well. All his bones shifted like some skeleton robot gone up and shorted out. Computer dissociative.

Off some where walking now with the interpreter was the girl. Saturnine with a lemon twist. Her freckles, sun kissed. The new fucking smart phone attache foreplay. Distraction impact high and non-resistant. She made a lovely nouveau interpreter’s assistant.

Not no store bought, this jam he had got himself in now, praying with a cigarrette out on the steps of the halls of justice. This jam was more like apricot preserves or some shit. Some district attorney’s intern’s intern, gave him a menacing look and an evil eye. 

No smoking on the steps to the halls of justice. Dummy.