take a moment

this very moment 

like you 

like me

moves and wakes

recedes quakes and

sometimes boils over

this moment

like me like you

asking only to be held

tenderly then let

go

#katyamills

may 18

i have this aching in my bones. but it's ok. summer is about to strike. the sun the source of energy. i love this feeling. i know this feeling. i'm at the edge of a jagged cliff. preparing for a deep dive... into a book.

#katyamills

return of the ghost of green eyes

ona street confronted 

by the ghost of green eyes

talks to them feeling they 

pain 

knows how to hiss forgot 

how to love

got some crumbs

for you here and some

time 

crying now? 

whatsoever 4 

the ghost of green

eyes they remember 

this was 

forbidden

b

unlike who you
are and what
you do

you cannot trust what
you think what
you feel

to be real

the best feeling

can be an everyday feeling not an unusual feeling and not one i wake up to necessarily, no, the best feeling arrives in the process of the right action, when i am doing the good and often unpleasant work. and when the hard work proves the best feeling, time after time, we see we can count on it. that's how the hard work becomes just a little easier for us, and living begins to knock kindly.

mid august melody

you were space
you were operatic

i was listening
but could not hear

like a potted plant i
needed time to take on
water. once i drank
i was full

i need to paint my nails
a soft shell blue
to remember me
with you

you are angry
i am yelling
you are pacing
i am telling myself
not to cry

i believe i'm gonna
sound the pitch of railroad tie
a'buried in the ground

locked in there. to stabilize
a nation. split in two

i am crying the earth away
so i can see you
again. next to me
saying your sorries

they mean nothing
they mean nothing

i am space
washing saucers
operatic

you are history
you are gone

i am thinking of you
i am typing

you are reading
i am writing we are
dreaming we are
one

summer's gone
and come

you are dreaming
i am typing we are
reading in the
sun

lost in books

When I was a little kid and the youngest of my family, I remember there was a lot of safety in intimacy I mean touch, there was a lot of playful gripping and holding and caressing and embracing, playful fighting and running and pushing and pulling, between kids and kids and adults and kids and friends and cousins and kids and family, there was a lot of charging and edging and rolling and rough handling of me, picking me up and tossing me in the air, or letting me get on your back or sit up on top of your shoulders when I was young enough to be light enough to be carried that way to be held that way to be safe that way and those days were so wonderful they could not last long enough. There was even a sad time somewhere when I could not reach out to you - nor you me - and I knew not what to do with myself, only get lost in my books.

jamming the transmissions

I could be accused of feeling my way through the world and it's not so bad. I would rather be a disheartened sentimentalist   than a computer or a religious fundamentalist. I guess I am still learning not to react, to check my feelings by my reason. I wouldn't shut them off. A world without feeling is a cold place, anyone who lives there could show and tell you. Most supposedly even-tempered people, are they really smooth around the edges? Don't most of them have a vestibule full of anger jamming their transmissions? Won't this pressure need to blow like an aortic aneurysm, and soon? And the people closest to them will naturally get the blowback. The residue at the bottom of a pot left on the stove to boil dry. I return to my seat in the auditorium. The giant screen. The sentimental film. And have a good cry.

papier-mâché

When i put forth the greatest of effort 

and try

then left all forlorn
with my    y-y-y-why?

when my eyes
see your eyes
and the eye lashes back


honesty says
look away now
love, look away

how I feel all alone
and your loneliness
too


i wish for your love
though there’s nothing to do



i hate all my wishing
i hate all my hating
hate all my feelings
this way and that


hating you
hating me


and then
get quiet
all turn
to stone



then come dark clouds

fifty thousand dark shades
the long and dark nights

the endless dark days


my ears start to bleed
my sight starts to fail
in exchange for choice words
my Latin, your Greek

choice merciless words
me to you to me speak


the storm in my head wants what happened, unreal
the turning over, my hands, what got stolen, not to steal

i stole from you 

steal from me

away from us
now

the wall between rooms
made of pa·pier-mâ·ché some
how

I would pull all apart! all the glue and the pulp
and i know you would, too! i swear this is
true


i will send out my linens now

white flags on the line
if only to know you 

were part, my design


i will unshape the monsters, tie them with twine
with hair if i have to, to keep unrefined
all the hatred between us
the base, solid kind


above which we once drew our cottons, with care
before they got soaked in our red sea and glare


unmoored
in the midnight dead sky
freshly fallen
lost love


instead i am left to wonder what was
with this broken heart, because and because

surrounded by white flags
and my
why why
  why whys


the tears
the wood floor
now dries


soon to burn
in the hearth of my heart
down below

knowing exactly
what i never wanted
to know

Journal # 04.12.15

Sometimes I won't listen to music lately. Because I wanna remember how to feel on my own. Yes. There, there, now I remember a little. The way you come into me. Can I welcome you inside? Do I have room there for anger and grief, laughter and joy? Or must I stop you with a silver spike gripped by brass knuckles, facing out from me and my shadow tonight?

No, no, come, come. Come into my arms. There now. Let me hold you like you were my child. Let us pass into a new understanding, the kind you find where there are no more secrets.

The thing that upsets me most is the amnesia. Or let's say, the limits of human memory. I feel I cannot endure your forgetfulness. Or mine. Who am I to forget everything or anything you ever told me. The things you told me with great difficulty, especially. Let's pretend I really was listening the first time, not cycling through my own internal. And so now there is only the matter of recall. There is the train whistle, subdued like a foghorn. No longer shrill anymore. Oh, this I remember. There is the haunting call of the fox and the wolf, the loon and the whippoorwill. These I could never forget. But you, you have told me the story of your life.

You have told me the story of your life, and now it continues. Now it continues on from where you left off. And you have my rapt attention, today, just like once I had yours. And there could be tears in your eyes, my dear, or are they just allergies, and I am present with you fully and I absorb your pain like a freight train I have willfully put myself before. Standing really in your place, though. To  only feel the feelings you felt. To only know you that intimately. More than I sometimes know myself.

Sometimes I won't listen to music anymore. Because I need to remember how to feel on my own. I am sorry I forgot what you told me. I see the hurt in your eyes. Now this I know succinctly. I can honestly say I am sorry I could not stand in front of the freight train of your full speed feelings you conveyed. These, my dear, are only for you to feel, alone.

VLOG - (something different)

I have been experimenting with VLOG (video blog)
because it's spontaneous and it's the real ME versus
the typical pre-composed works of fiction and poetry
which come your way. Although you can find all my
videos (music, spoken word, and vlog) on my youtube
channel, occasionally i like to post a video here where
I have a much larger following. If you like it and want
more, be sure to subscribe to my youtube channel.
Thanks and especially to those who have been so
encouraging to me in the different ways I try and express
myself! -K

Journal # 03.07.15

Someone will take me apart for sure. In me they will find a small treasure, not long for this earth. A heart which beats unexpectedly strong through all its scar tissue. The scars are dark and long, and tell of relationships all gone wrong. The beat is made in America, though it could be made in your beautiful country as well. It beats for silent mornings of fresh snow. It beats for nights long ago, drunk and high in magnificent clubs warehousing the dancing exuberance. Youth of Chicago. It beats for kittens come and gone, taken by dogs and cars and God. The scars hold the blood in. The blood is blue for me and you. The blood is purple mountains majesty. The blood has thinned in California, steeped in wine and sun and golden gate rouge. My system is a centrifuge. My dreams circulate. Making rounds of institutions. Geometry like a web. The architectural brilliance of our cities. I am but a little chaos in a lined and static blueprint. I am lost and found all over again. Take me apart. I'm yours.

'and we miss you'

and we miss you

by Katya Mills

about innocence, lost

So they finally came over me… wonderfully…. sadly… terribly powerful but so could I only be humbled and basically in tears and sudden mourning and of course, somewhat secretly as is the fashion i guess,  a process instinctuelle - not contrived or deliberated or prepared…no, like all matters of things diverse and sundry, the need comes over me to tell somebody (and possibly nobody), though my faith resides all over planet heart to the core.  

Lineage download to the system 32, or in my case, 39 going on in cautious anticipation through the forty filter which now is like static or push off of some tropical blemish on some warm yummy blue sky caribbean dream day.

Every green spread of earth above sea level, from cuba to barbados across the cuts of rough waters swirling all directions and drawn into tight circles by the rising winds of an incubating tropical depression…

Hell!

The waves lap up against my thoughts with an empathic kiss and on slipping out away moments later. 

A child learning to read and write and get along. 

Just passed that frightening entrance into the great institution.

Now feeling warm and even cared for many days of the week.

Perhaps 'well-acclimated' and relieved to have been ushered in so sweetly…

with all my being I swear I would tear the fucking eyes out the head of the evil which came across and stole them from us…

Rated X (it won't be pretty)

The ocean had a lake effect on the sea
the sea had a lake effect on me
the feelings fell in line
one two three
agree?

the oil eaters unleashed on the spill
saved some corporation
a pretty penny

the pretty penny went for absolute nothing on
the loving kindness market
panhandlers started skipping it
like stones
between the legs of passerbys
and out into the streets
of any city

shiny penny
in the street

someone said would you hit that?
meaning a tall
                   cool
             glass of water walking by

- American for
rated R for
sexuality -

some poor slang-lacking bastard
melting in
from another country
ran out after
the shiny penny
between two parked cars
any city

by the time rush hour traffic
got the green light, well...

let's just say
it wasn't pretty

Intuitives

You may know us
By air currents
Electric

In a faraway
Place without
Outlet

We may speak
Without words
Looking
the glass
From within

We
May come
clean
cross
The
Crossing

Our
deepest
sense
felt
somehow

Somewhere
Rare
and
unusual

where streams
bend backward

Glancing off
Blockages
And human made
Check dams

To clasp
into rivers
impossible

By Katya Mills