vasodilating in the heart of an era

Having dressed the walls and my wounds with classical music tonight, my thoughts now alight upon the exclusivity principle rooted to our being. The marrow starts to gel in the bones then vaporizes and shrieks out - a veritable night train whistle, forewarning us of the onslaught of the millenial generations. It's nobody's fault. Life just steams and marches on, stepping carelessly over the carcasses of the formerly treasured, the loved. Some of the more rock-like formations hold out a little longer. Consider the St. Petersburg Conservatory, one of only thousands of imperial-strength monuments in the world which could sing you impossible tales of a century ago, hemmed in at the waist by a sea of concrete.

'Highway#1. Bodega Bay by helicopter' - KatYa, 2016

One cannot have a delicate stomach for change. We must all harden our arteries to the passage of life, for it will divert its path from us and our microcosmic runs, either way; tastes will change, schools will shift, culture will replace itself, rejecting, celebrating, denying, judging, appreciating, dismissing, cherishing, banning, engorging, ridiculing, savoring along. I think the best you can do is love it while you last, participate in the push and pulls, and when your very own consigns you to your residue, the dripping-to-seal wax of human history, you take your place and hold there, never giving up, whilst the populace cartwheels over your back and pushes you deeper down by soft and sure palms, to the world beyond the light-wind-water-fire, into a quiet and dark place inhospitable to your past, where you may again flourish with a nitroglycerin glow, vasodilating in the belly of the heart of an era.

under the influence of and blindsided by life

what is left to do but live when all the other meaning i ever thought life carried no longer holds me, no way, all is left is the life itself and whomever orchestrated this party clearly let me figure it out for myself, hey, there's nothing can be figured by it, there is little use for an outline for a story that changes every instant, imperceptibly most of the time, punctuated by obvious dramatic incidents, unraveling in a rhythm decided by greater forces than self and self-will - whether you call it god or not, there it is showing you up all the time - and i could begin to really love it if only i could accept it, but tend to fight it all the while, not sayin' im against change, no way, but i guess i get attached like any young fool i wanna hold on to the meaning i created and not let go, the meaning i share with you, as we unravel the way we do, pretty sometimes, funny, tragic sometimes, for i cherish it and maybe that's what a book is to me, writing a book, capturing a sliver of cherished meaning, so we can have it, you and me, so we can know in twenty sixteen this was how it was for a hot second, glorious, tumbled off of a platform and raising dust, confused and intoxicated as life is, under many an influence, troubled and reflective, comin apart at the seams, belligerent, graceful sometimes, then colliding again with the water, the air, the earth, blindsided by the spirit, chanted away on a fallen sun, going dark again, colorful at dawn, vital, full of hope and bloodied shows we're made of something, and - no matter the violent wannabes tryin to ruin what we got - the sure thing won't ever change is our rising up with an ever touched fortitude to show them we can love them, too, despite themselves spun into lost causes, for we have been lost, too, and only found ourselves like old friends to embrace and move courageously into the lucid dream in precarious identities under our skin, deepening the experience only by giving and giving into. And out of my mind i go, crazy and unregimented - sometimes in ink - zigzagging under the influence of strange and unseen elements, having a grand and grainy absorption, laughin and cryin, talkin and sleepin, knowing no other way but here, but now, discardin the limited perception, struggling to make somethin of it, and so what's made is what is, and what is is pretty damn spectacular, i mean, what is left to do but live, when all the meaning you ever made no longer holds you, no way, is that freedom or what? Whether we want it or not it's not about what we want, is it, it's only lived and the living never wears out, just as sure as perception has its limits, we see death when nothing ever dies, life keeps living and nothing will stop it! Not even the end of this earth, so goddamn! Whose to worry? All is left is the imperceptible ever changing, punctuated by obvious dramatic moments, spaced by space, unitive when embraced, divided when not, judged all along, fading into sunsets, risen into colors, drawn out over time, blessed by the blessings, covered in earth, supported on the back of the wind, falling like the water, breaking in a wave, bleached by the sun, suffering in darkness, and tremendously reunited, partying til dawn, siesta all day, coffee in the evening, writing at night, diving into books, driven into meaning,  making use of what we've been given... loving every second if you are lucky and figure out how to give in: so give in, my friend, give in.   - KatYa, 2016 (celebrating blog post #1,000)

where we go from here

i will go extinct
with you

to a place
no one
sees

afar away so
far away

with you
i know
a place
to go

from land and sea
and chestnut
tree

to timeless honey
amber seeds
grown up in milky
weeds

thrash about
the ankles of
the dagger
trees

in porous ozone
magnifique
of everglades on bended
knees

the wind will turn to
water then

our words need no
translation
there

you braid my hair
i nick your name

in ghostly hollows
full

we harbor not ill
will

we selfless
standing small and
still

talking through our golden
eyes

where smiles wide
formulate
new skies

please!

now don't be
scared

come with me
extinct
you see

we've only just
begun

© Katya Mills

flash. reach the beach

a sacrifice
on demand

an edifice
push
into
sand

i dream on sea
i dream on wind

i dream on
dream on
land

© Katya Mills, 2014

fire

be careful
when
playing
with words

you
might
    hurt
  some
   one

'the wind remembered'

- K - Original poetry
written and performed by K

- K - attitude art series
'evolve'

 

the wind remembered

 nobody remembered her name or her face

or the pale of her wrists

by the edge of her lace



no one remembered the man or his name

who sunk his axe deep


in the wood

in the yard

in his sleep



only the wind still whispered her name

through the gaps and the floors

through those walls

made of wood


and wrung out the leaves of the trees

just like hands

to remember the others


the other ones who had died

there


two and twenty years before

and twice as long

before then


and twice as long

before then


and twice as long

before then