4.13.25

you idiot

stop watching true crime b4 bed

i tell myself this 

then do it 

again 

i have bad dreams either way 

what's so compelling? 

seeing 

the good people who got offed

avenged? the forensics? 

no. it's reliving my narrow escape

my living nightmare

like i was the one

#katyamills

key to the crime

discovered by a librarian working in the stacks it was key to solving the murder. they knew she had met him there and was his type and was the last place she was seen. the correspondence on the paper in the book matched both their handwriting and tied them.

#katyamills

morningside park

tugging on a lamppost 

atop a flight of stairs

by a blade they lost

they strength

waylaid

not without a fight

began to fade

between the teeth the skin

the beat it slows 

to fin and many full 

with sorrow

hearts

#katyamills

rotary phone

like some sweet casino game
they drilled holes in a disk
attached to your face
buxom and heavy
enough i could defend my life
by you. crack some bastard
in the skull. curled
umbilical cord wrapped around
the body. receiver gripped cold
dial zero for an operator
will talk you down
until help arrives

#katyamills

en scene 1

stolen car. desperate men. 1950. conspire for quick cash. chicago. there will be blood.

killer iii

they will not ever be who they were before they killed. the part of them that had a chance to be anything other than cold-blooded is gone with the light in their eyes

hunting the unforgiven

I find it wild and a little unsettling to see my country focusing on witch hunts as the ranks of the unforgiven grow, though the feeling is matched by the redemptive quality which forms in our cultural atmosphere each time someone's longheld secret is released and truth stands up finally to power.

This year we have witnessed several figures of great power in Hollywood and the District of Columbia and Manhattan blasted on Twitter and sued and denounced on mainstream media, and a few who have been stripped of power, in those cases where they are clearly (if not by forensic evidence than by the numbers of allegations and survivors) guilty of abusing and betraying the public trust by their actions.

How do I reconcile my mixed reaction to these media moments of horror and truth and compassion? I was once guilty of betraying public trust. Day by day, for several years, I have been working my way back to respectability. Society is giving me a chance to learn from my mistakes. A life cut up by addiction. I left myself behind and lost my mind.

Only god knows if I will make it tomorrow. My past is history. Today I do my best to participate in life and help out, bringing all I have learned with me wherever I go. Sharing. Caring.

What of these public figures whose pasts have caught up with them? Outcasted from society and unforgiven? Why does it disturb me to see them disfigured and disrobed from their fraudulent personas? Isn't this justice and long overdue?

I guess it's sad to watch people die that way, publicly, and sometimes their loved ones have to die alongside them. Meanwhile the victims of their crimes survive. It is unsettling to uncover what they have lived through, the survivors. I know because I am one, too.

I wonder where forgiveness fits in, when it comes to the unforgiven? I wonder if there's a certain hell where healing never starts? A tail end and no beginning. And how it came to be this way?

lost ina video

He was an older man, single and retired and replete with cash, dating a woman he knew through her employment at a casino he frequented. He was forever dysconnected to a timeless place of artificial light and sound. He committed an atrocity, an even several hundred yards detached from the crime scene. He was once flesh and blood but got lost ina video poker game that never ended, and whatever connect he had to reality if any, was severed. Nobody can understand how this can happen to a man, and few will ever forgive him. His father was a known criminal and he was born into a family on the run. This cannot account for his psychotic break. He left behind him a timeless place of artificial light and sound. And thousands upon hundred thousands of broken hearts.

salt whispering of the great sea change

She knew the siphoning to be as surreptitious as it was dangerous down the river a ways, where community and real estate parted, where souls were handed off shamelessly to areas unincorporated and lesser know than a cold case file in a sub-basement archive a steep fall off the side of a paper trail, where who knows? met who cares? in the quicksand of the lost. shoelaces, cell phones, rolling papers, broken glass, one-eyed jacks, matchbooks with names scrawled into them, worry stones, loose change. there, gathered en masse, were those who frightened her by their differences, ghosts, salt whispering of the great sea change.

Girl Without Borders 2.8.1

Book Review: Mr. Mercedes

Mr. Mercedes by Stephen King
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

This is what you get for an impulse buy in Safeway, I mean, a grocery store is a place people go to buy groceries and liquor, not paperbacks! Being accustomed the cold and hard grip of my kindle lately, I just could not turn down the irresistible feeling of all that paper in my hand. And Stephen King has and always will have captured a piece of my heart, so I consider him a trusted source of quality fiction. But his niche is horror - not whodunits!

I enjoyed the first hundred pages or more. A good setup, very interesting characters. Dialogue was sharp, and King's wit was splashed across the pages. He's not always convincing me he has his finger on the early twenty-first century, which is when the book takes place. I mean, sometimes, with words like 'milquetoast', I cannot help picturing an elderly white man penning this book. Not that there's any problem with that, but some of the language is a bit old-fashioned is all. Another nice touch is the exchange of narration from the perspective of the criminal to the perspective of the detective from chapter to chapter. He gets well inside the head of the sick bastard, that's for sure. One of King's strengths, I suppose. But the writing wasn't really special or anything, it was a bit cookie cutter. I kept on thinking, if I took the name King off this book, would I still be reading?

I think this book may have been outlined to perfection, before it was written. It just lacks that certain magic of natural discovery you find in books that are written with less of a perfect plan in place. It is very tidy. All the pieces fit snugly together all the way to the end. Like an editor took it and cut all the juice out of it, to make it more marketable, more salable. Somewhere towards the last couple hundred pages of the book, I started doing those calculations in my mind and that thing where you grab the pages between your forefinger and thumb to save your place, and check for the back matter to see really how much is left to get to the end. It just happened, I couldn't help it.

I really wanted to feel deeply immersed and captivated, after all, King was an author I grew up on and he will always be a champion of horror! Alas, this book is not horror.


View all my reviews

the crime scene is permanent

Her great eyes fall on us
while we are looking

the medium

the monster

we give our all
to thank her
for the ocean

lackluster commentary
washes up on the shore

the droppings
of opinion
hit and run
hit and run

the crime scene
is permanent

she spreads us
lost and luster
thin sometimes

in a minute hand's
wide circling
lenient spin
sometimes

we do it
to ourselves

the hours
artfully wasted
the body
hardly moves

text necking in our photo
editing booths

manipulating
the age off our faces

pixel worship
while life gets scarier
out there

help me
i have forgotten
what's real

i don't wanna regret
all this screen time
like some washed up
porn star

 even that
must be real

god let me fall back
laughing in your arms

at a bar
at a laundromat
smoking reds

caring

Profile: filter systemics, twenty thirteen

She was pretty cool...
before she became lead singer by her own self-election
within the band she formed of her own vainglorious self-promotion
after years on the trail of herself (like a bloodhound) and her own self-unfolding...
in deinterlaced leaves of cascading simplicities.

She was pretty cool by unfair prejudicial standards.
Like teenage mutant ganja standards in the lone star state. Or one of the many states that share its borders, despite vehement sworn disassociation.  What made her cool, cooler, was the precision marching up of bands of heat. Such efforts of interstate hate would not go unnoticed. Unfortunately.

Her reputation bubbled up over bunsen burners, in the kinda legend-making labs only the usa could conjure. Some of the same labs that produced our torrential downpours of cultural insomnia and paranoia, within the context of widely consumed sheets of shards of glass. Ya. A greater misfortune could not have been told by the third of three eyes, in the great psychic trailer pantheon of the sky.

Outside, the lamentations of the past, present, and future loosely-affiliated yet heavily congregated fearful remnants of the war on drugs, were not enough to put out the fire. Perfectly phalanxed in picket line style, yet penetrable nonetheless. Penetrable as a whose-who of crackhead ho's short-on-crack and long on tar black.
Penetration was not even the word for it. Much more subtle, merci dieu. Like those black and white b-flick wannabe cowboys and draft dodgers and other escapades escape-e's wandering into some sunken like forest and high or low-stepping right into quicksand. Sucked into the earth. That kind of sucks. Kinda sux.

 firekiller by katya

This was twenty thirteen. This was filter systemics. Filter politics. Filter engineering. The language obeyed its master. Penetration became Permeation. And permeation defied most laws of geometry. Thus rendering the phalanx useless. And linguistically defunct. Thus turning up the dial on the lamentations. Which only made what sucked, suck worse. The filtercone for swaths of glass had not yet been perfected, by the labs situated conveniently across the street. They were too busy shrinking the nuclear families of warheads for the current fear lobbyists of nuclear war, by government decree, and the tax of psychosocialspiritual stressors on such an endeavor was so high, the barrier of entry was one wrinkle short of a homeland security sanctioned fingerprint. So what sucked worse, only sucked some more.

Ya. She was pretty cool and out of touch-like, and going cold now. Heading toward hypothermia and frozen hysterics. She and her minions would need to purchase a really cool team of youthful fronting lawyers, by cagey corporate costly law school standards, to even gain a fraction of a chance of a snowball in hell with a colonoscopy-probe-probability following on the ass of a seldom struck facebook page. Open the fucking fan club vault, minnie mouse. It's gonna be a reach!

by Katya Mills  @ kissilent.wordpress.com
July 2013

cobwebbed in corners (living life lavishly)

She was
Calmly pronounced a communist
She was
Only nineteen and reading Marx
She was
Crunching on Pringles
Turning to Engels

 She laughed so hard. sent into rare fits
 Taken 2 the ground. unable to breathe
 Circa 1986 (or seven). inverted hair weave

B4 girls finishing school
B4 armadas of treasuries
B4 living life leisurely
B4 living life lavishly

Her gf was
bending over and under oily cars, greasy pipes
frazzled cutting wires
cobwebbed and cornered
blackened by chimneys...

on break
smoking snipes

the only crack she was exposed to
was plumbers
the only oil they got on their hands
offshore drilling companies stock

the only wired they knew was
ten cups of coffee deep
 over morning newspapers
they often fell asleep

Shhh! 
dont mention the powder coke
hid behind a classy term
screened by smoke
like designer drug

Shhh!
keep the whole thing
under the oriental rug

matter of fact
keep your whole life
on the down low...

flattened in lines
patterned. deceptive
hieroglyphic designs

Only divining rods
can find us
Only symbols will
define us

Divination
our birthright
Deaf people
can sign us

Then when
we come out
to shine
all your shoes

the light
will be clear...
the choices
we choose

at the top
of our lungs
at the top
of the stairs
leading down
to our subway
we sing
the same songs
we sing

we sing blues


-  Katya W Mills 
03.02.2013
dedicated to KaliKila