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.

(re)cognition(s)

i thought all over you, i am sorry, i mean no harm, all my memories playin across your body and face like runny egg-white shadows and you don't know what to do, so politely ensconced listenin to me go on and on about stuff we forgot purposefully long ago -- OH -- the damage i might do on accident, for me you would do anything, for you i would do anything, making something of you you are not, here with our cutoff gloves playing fingertipsies, blind to the sign language we are groping -- THE -- cognition is not fully lubricated, does not cover the entire street and buildings and sky and short bursts of nature in the medians, i guess in this ragtag mind i got, driftin here, pausing over there -- BY -- the cracks in the roads whereby loiters and got no business to be, trance music, clubs, dancing, you and me, why can i not hold up on our benevolency -- PLEASE -- i mean no recognitions, move along little thoughts, fly away, move along, there are interior spaces up in northern provinces, Canada and the like, which need fulfilling -- SPACES -- we will bundle ourselves up and head out into icy quiet not-threatening ones,  warmth of coffee and small talk, overtures of what we may be if we simply let ourselves trudge forward and go

dominoes. heaps of clothes -iii

They are dropping chlorine bombs again, while we splash our faces with the ones in our faucets, garnish with lemon and salt, now saddled with inhalers ready and breathless, in a homemade salt water sensory deprivation tank of fish, we are the fish, all is quiet and swimming in social medium. Crystal hot sauce splatters over the oysters in a postmodern spasm, slide off their rocks to Sitting Tongue who awaits. waiting. all we got this morning is waiting for confessions for paydays for unemployment checks for new leaders with new promises made, waiting for the promises to be made good, or not, or more to come.

i was waiting for you and my internal (programming) to stop the isolating (command) and go outside where you told me the sun still shines, waiting for the sun (listening to the Doors) in a bathtub on the run, completely thrilled was all i got (when i had you) and the two cats - Shy and Drama - somehow all my adult life all the cats again and again protect the sanctity of my life, but you, there is you and me and (we are) more than most (cats) can handle  - in 2011 - we had our homeless friends looking for homes we had our home which we would not have much longer, we had been told. you and me we have grown but not grown old. we have been abused and abused we have, tossed our litanies into the fire of another conjured argument with friends or enemies or one another and the same. all i got is you and our song remains the same. the hook is the only problem.

all we got is enemies. number one on the hot list of those who hate our guts? you. and me. in the space between us god bore witness, well, that's the kind of sentence got strung out and led to the forest path this morning, sometimes urgency in it, too, or swollen with bottom dwollen wrath (Allman brothers can soothe us only so long).

all i got is my music sometimes. this morning all i got is a cloud and the light so bright its perfectly loud and hurts my head a bit. but i got medication for that. OT and C what i got? i got meds and antibacterial handwash a tropical sea color blue with bubbles trapped in there like, well, like leaders trapped behind their military might in Syria in Egypt in Tunisia in Iran in Yemen in Algeria...trapped like bubbles in a cascading tropical Facebook blue ignited and (it had been said) long overdue...

like me and you. take us back and stamp us red and pay for us so we can recirculate back into the system where some unfortunate child some day will wander away and pull us off a darkened shelf in the horror section, to look through to the other side. ya, all i had back then was a pretty good feeling we would stay alive and survive the two and the ones (these numbers gotta add up to something), on a day was February twenty-one, twenty-eleven.  0.2.2.1.2.0.1.1. numbers add up to nine ...

number nine (by design)
number nine (lives)
number nine (sign)
KatYa, 2016 remix 2011

dominoes. heaps of clothes -i

We got pushed and shoved until we formed into something bigger than the pushes and shoves, something resilient and not without a heart for a fight. Outcasts on the margins and nowhere else we wanted to be. You could see it in our eyes, night after night. One could tell that's how we hooked up, you and me

all i got this morning is you
all you got is me
and two battle ax lounge ax young
blood kittens

suffer some more and you will
have something

we are daft
      first draft
we are punk

tough shit if anyone thinks they know
how we will work out

peanut butter jelly
and skunk

me and you of all the meanings
could be derived. like the mountains
a long long time ago

even when it was now
me and you got drive.
and never will be
again

i kinda wish sometimes
we were still
friends

Journal # 06.11 (dialogue between two parts of my self)

We cannot continue like so! Put together has fallen apart!
Look there in the sky, the moon has been cut half away!
The air, it is thin, I am quite sure to be starving my lungs!

Easy, easy now.
There, there. 
Have yourself some mint
chamomile tea. 

Oh, thank you my dear. It is too hot off the stove, yet!
 But wait, these floods you wear, the material
cut off at the calf, leave your ankles exposed!
If the cats do not get them, mosquitoes certainly will!

Let the cats scratch them
Let the bugs bite.
I will not lose any sleep
over this, tonight. 

Journal #05.27

I love you like ice melting pure off the icicle into my mouth underneath, you touch my tongue to speak and all through the week, what with the rolling hills of my expression unfenced and undivided, sprawling all out under your warm regard, you play the card, two of diamonds, which i draw into a hand of deuces and a pair of clubs... i fan myself with royalty on the way to a flush and with you is a rush, the slow developed connect as the sun moves over a screen porch to touch us on the other side and please sun, i don't want to be touched, i say, without my permission today, and i move around to your beside, you and your cadillac margarita and the salt on your tongue, mischief in your eyes... i see your hand, do you not realize... now i know if only i go to the kitchen bare-footed for the freezer trays of blue i crack for you, the cubes of ice so formed  i drop them into a highball, giving the cat and dog my love-flecked call, and etch my bones with your glassy possessive, and click on back in thin thin summer sandals to the underlying praise of the trees and lake, means and ways, where i drop a few cubes in your glass and one down the back of you shirt, yes, and next thing you know i got my flush to lay down by your bright and silver incredulous eyes, you with your hand of deuces... oh what a couple of fools, aces in love we made.

short wave breaks, new coke era - ii )

She was strange
with her transistor radio
melting into spaces
in a whirlwind
white noise
 purr

     a lightning rod
    a conduit
she was

selfless by design
addicted to flannel
IQ unknown. a prodigy on
piano

the sound
of sound colliding

what would we do?
death of the transistor radio
boo. hoo

she shook the radio gently
turned the dial shook the static
out her hair

for a moment was she
colloquially. informal
mad mixed with strange and static
electricity. far from normal

she arched her back
crossed her legs
envisioned whole
golden hard-boiled eggs
exploded to the
           to the
       to the

to the
   sound
of sound colliding

source energy fields
filled the gaps in her spine

death of the
transistor radio

short wave break beats
resonate through her
so slow you could catch it
if you just stood still. there
stood still. there
still. there

we would. there
we did. there

oceans of sound = places she reside
with flora and fauna
she washes in on the tide

she's strange
hard to get to know
you must rearrange
to attune with her
so go!

reconfigure your cortex
two firewalls down!
dive into her transistor
ocean of sound!

you may touch into her
if she looks to be found

often hiding in shade
with the lights drawn blue
where her heart and
her secrets lie in wait
for you

(just up the dial
from you know who)

guess what?
she is yours
the breath of god
out her pores
into yours

you are hers
she is yours
guess what?
i am yours

you are mine
i am hers
she is yours
all the hours
time is fine
you are mine
venus furs
world tours
you are mine
i am yours

honestly.

honestly. as i can. february. aquarian.
honestly. as i go. letting the words let me go.
honestly. for real. there is no other way home.
honestly. so you know me.
better. so together. we can find our way.
together home.

talkative. this is me. sometimes singing.
singing to myself.
in the shower.
to my kittens.
or nobody.

caring. so much it hurts.
til i cannot care no more.

kselfie021014

social. anti-social. i do my best.
sleep alot. for the preservation society of
undiluted bursts of
clear loving
energy.

social. anti-social. i do my best.
what i think is most important is that i never rest.

young family portrait @ dawn

The day started well. We were asleep, as the night folded in and retreated, real quiet like. Real nice. Left without anyone knowing she left. After sharing her stars and her sweet summer darkness. Her shade cooled the earth and the air and the waters. She asked nothing in return, no, nothing at all. The night she retreated, and the day came, to call.

The air was a cool fifty. The sound of the silence was heavy, delicious. Like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Quiet. Rich. Impermeable and whole. The air, a cool fifty, going on fifty-five. Circulating through town, with the taste of corn and scent of almond, and sweet summer wildflower. She carried the scent of sweet wildflower honey.

Then the birds started up, politely, maybe two at a time. The calls they repeated, maybe three by three times. Then tried out a different spacing, between breaths. Carefully setting the tone. Up in the trees, or down under eaves. Outside the home, in a nest papered with leaves.

 A clock am radio, at a low volume humm. Some nightshift wonder, still talking fresh into the day. With a warm-hearted colloquial, and a laughter contagion. Rare few would catch it, the laughter contagion. The lucky night owls. He shared his thoughts so sweetly, and with such elation. Through speakers. Talking to anyone. Drinking hot coffee in his sneakers. Laughing about kids in his life, maybe nephews and nieces. About coming together...or falling to pieces.

The day started well. The air a cool fifty. The birds set the tone. Against the graveyard shift dj and the wonderful silence. The box fan shared generously, the breeze from the delta. We felt it come over us, in our dreams and subconscious.

We were all asleep in the apartment. The Tibetan bell hung from the ceiling fan, softly chiming every once in a while. The ceiling fan spun slow on its calmest rotation, pushing the moist delta breeze, pusing fifty. Pushing it around. The air did not care. Kinda liked to be touched.

The moon was running high, when it started to fade out, like an ice cube dropped into a warm summer sky. The moon, she had offered us all many chances. Chances for romances in the tall grasses. Chances to find what we otherwise lost. Chances to appeal to some final burst of energy. Some reservoir typically untapped. The moon offered chances, before fading out. In the tall grasses, in the outskirts. In the outskirts of the city.

The sun came up slow and easy. Would have been shot down in a gunfight. So there would be no gunfight, not when the sun appeared that way. The day anticipated peace. The scavengers hung their heads and searched the soil for worms. The sun warmed the earth, and made the day up like soft clay. The sun made the day. The day like soft clay.

We all awoke to this. This soft day of clay and moist air, set into tranquility. With birds and clock radios, calling us out. Circulating air a cool fifty. Summer dawn sun and moonlight, kinda blue.

You and me, and the kittens make four. Four little creatures inside a small house. We all awoke, all four, all four of us. Number: 4. We all awoke in one room, but only one at a time. One by one by one by one. First was the kitten, the orange one, to be sure. The orange tiger tabby woke up by your feet. By your feet, in the sheet, curled up by your feet.

Next was me, I woke up next. Back to your chest. My soft summer feeling arose from hard, wicked dreams. My countenance, upset. Almost disturbed. But my youth returned to me in a flash, not just thoughts but some feeling. I could feel your arms around me, and your body come up against me. I was harbored by you, that's why I smiled in the sheets. The cats were curled up like some ropes around cleats.

I smiled in the sheets, by the bay window there. In the cool air. The blue white light. With the kittens at our feet. This was so welcome, like the sound of the birds and the box fan and radio. Like the silence that surrounded and harbored us, each morning.

You were still asleep, next to me. Next to me. I was slowly awakening to the light of the day. And the orange tiger tabby, who awoke first of four? His big brown eyes looked in mine. Up from a valley, behind the white sheets. Behind the pure dream of my waking, and yours. With the light from the east, and you by my side. With a kitten by the west wall and another by the east. And those beautiful brown eyes.

Those golden brown eyes. Your golden brown skin.
My pale figure, heavy rising up from the bed. To replete the hummingbird feeder, with liquid sugar. To get some OJ out of the freezer. To pour orange into blue cup.

Then you raised your pretty golden head. And you got yourself up.
Then the cat by the west wall, stretched up like a pony.
The kitten. The west wall. The starch sheets and moist air. The blue and white dawn of the day, so clear. I awoke next to you, next to you, my dear.

by Katya 07/13
kissilent.wordpress.com

Not to mention....mentioned #i)

The land settled for a moment in time. The city was captured by the heat, roped by the American River, and surrounded by patchwork farmland spotted by cattle and dogs, and graced by the horses. The land, by the turn and dawn of the new century twenty one, was blessed with horses. They would be cared for religiously, obssessive-compulsively, if not set freed to their native state like they ought to be. Many were still fortunate to run wild over Montana and the Dakotas, and Canada above us. These ones looked upon most others with a fair contempt. Like wild anything will do.

 Over the course of the twentieth century, their predecessors had been shoed and put to the grind relentlessly. They were equally, if not more markedly, responsible as the railroad for giving means toward the making of such a drop dead beautiful American city as Sacramento. This our seat of the great state of California. You need only go stand within a few hundred feet of the Capitol to feel it. The electricity rushes up and down the spine with a nice hushpuppy finish. The calm of the center, that is. Thank your gods and lucky stars for this place.

And for the horsepower behind it all (not to mention rounding cattle and working courier on the side) ((and just did)). The only relief granted the horse, in this century or last, came in the form of one man's vision become reality. Mr. Henry Ford of Detroit, Michigan (and his many forgotten associates, of course). He made the machines that made offroading and joyriding and donuts possible. Not to mention drive-bys and drive-throughs and drive-ins. Now mentioned. Henry Ford, he satisfied our deepseated longing for speed. He offset our collective human discomfort with gravity. The automobile  will always exist in the hearts of men and women who have the courage (and lack the sanity) to strap themselves to engines. These the sons and daughters of those who lacked the sanity (had the courage) to strap themselves to wild horses formerly saddled by the poor sons of bitches who had the stupidity to contemplate taming these powerful wonderful creatures. Those lives were short-lived indeed. One hoof to the head and its history! Watch a lineage, long extended,  end in a moment in a day. The human will always exist in the hearts of the horses who shook him and chased the sun to freedom to no ends of the earth.

Rolling allostasis -iv)

She was in her twenties, when she surfaced from the midsection of an iceberg, the frozen contents of some formerly fluid collective subconscious experience. In the middle of nowhere, mind you. A slow drip of unhappening. Congealed into living memories (consistency of molasses).  So she thawed from her heart out, and the ice around her began to soften in her light and heat, and collect supine at her feet. Aqua devotion. If water had hands... then prayer beneath her dry eyes. So rare did this sorta manifestation occur. The glaciers melt in their natural way before her. And she takes her damn time. You don’t hurry a glacier. You age it, like wine. Or wait for her to melt, to reference empirical evidence of global warming. Melting butter at room temperature. She never left the kitchen table. Painting her daily bread. Turning and turning yellow over time with the wallpaper. Gotta get worse before she gets better. Baby blue with white flowers, soft and malleable. Almost vulnerable, fallible – almost human again. As she wishes. As they want her. Sorry says the fight inside her, delivering the roundhouse Queen Anne Victorian style. Round one...TKO. From a frozen warrior #2 asana. Feel the heat. Sauna.