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 INVISIBLE IMPENETRABLE TRANSPARENT NONEXTANT WALL PART II

ORIGINAL NONFICTION BY KATYA MILLS

(first published on kissilent.wordpress.com)

To whom does intimacy port? How does intimacy travel? Is it firewire fast? Scanned thoroughly or just one-passed? When intimacy gets all awkward for us and scares us, like we are losing the ability to connect, man to man, woman to woman, cross, duck under, stretch, stare, flare, and circle in courtship with such fanfare? The movement is fascinating, but what about the other plains? Do we not still need umbrellas, every time it rains? Relics of nylon stretched over the wiry, long, hovering fingers to the tips. Do we even touch the rain? Does it touch us? What does it mean to dodge all this feeling, being, suffering... seeing?

How will our your species keep up, unless we me port ourselves soon? We know how to run. To hide. We are intimate with rather the ever more impractical, ancient art of NASA space shuttling, away away away. Gasoline is so flammable and smells bad. But it's energy, so take it, tangible smelly burning solitude of petrol, never to upload. Simply bleed out and soak in, absorption into the earth, dissolving into the air. Breaks your my our collective heart. From about where to where? Away away away.  So much easier to gravitate away, along the shipment channels standard, the paths prepioneered, the snow carved out like ribs like rivers like thanks, like giving. Less work, more sedentary Tryptophan-inspired ennui. 

And thus you me? You me we? You me we are free. Aren’t we? HBO specials on dead presidents who stare back at us, with iron spirits carried on currency. Have currency, have freedom? Have nots have none? I you we get confused mixed feelings that throw off our equilibrium sometimes. Fresh liberation we feel so true! Next year enslaved in another addictive groove. Low and weary, we they obey the countenance command: level up from source – level up now…. sad.

Stored back with the medicine balls, the deflation. In the dark, reprioritized, put on the desktop and in the taskbar so you cannot miss it, humanity; but its like an antiquated major looking uncomfortable as Latin between Chinese and Spanish…uncomfortable, horribly so, inside the cardboard strung together, placed over the shoulders of our teenagers needing currency so bad, so bad they would advertise something other than themselves, direct produce and starring in your next product placement plan you put to action. Doing things like we know nothing. This much about nothing.

This much about something. Something about suffering. Something about not able to get quite warm enough in the cold, cool enough in the heat. Not quite able to get exactly the comfort required to prevent a progression toward madness. The garden grows out and over, the vines together cut back to the knees for having passed the invisible, impenetrable, transparent, nonextant wall divides you, me, us. What was to protect us in our idea of safety and personal refuge? What was. What is solitary kind of confinement. Solitary refinement is how you work that angle of free, solitary, introverted, workaholic genius. Empirical proof for us all to be in relief. Relieved.

zen hen

Before they found her...

They were looking for a pleaser like me, or like you. Carefully. Like a mental health evaluator, after monthly quota of eligibles has been met and just exceeded. In the fullness of our lives, on the dark end of a half-moon feather cut of a night. On the cornish line. They were looking for the special chosen one. The ten out of ten eggs are good, hen. Initial results were disappointing. That was before they found her.

Now the inspectors flashed their zirconian smiles. Delighted. Soon the cheap rock would be scraped off and replaced. A different tune would play. Thanks to our totally realistic, alert post its inertia, cluck or duck, fix-whats-broken, walk-on-eggshells, notorious to be, substitute teacher, future-minded zen hen... there she is! In the wheat corner, the favorite, the oddsmaker, the two to one super-standard! Our saving grace! There she is. Rearing a thousand chicks...

Future numbers girls? Only time will tell.