Boston 1823

drunk

with impossible notions

he navigates the cobblestones poorly

scattering pigeons 

spitting feathers 

cursing god

#katyamills

Royal sessions [10.2.1998]

What if it was premeditated what if it was orchestrated what if they broke in and attacked her what if she wasn't strong enough or fast enough to get a dough roller and crack it over their skull? The slightest movement or sound and she played it out to the fearful end. It took a precise and steady routine, a military exercise almost, to get herself back to baseline. She knew she was ridiculous. The dude was locked up in a max state pen and he was too miserable and weak to risk getting sliced into ribbons by barbed wire. Of one thing she was sure. She wasn't gonna let fear get the best of her. Bad things happen to good people, which explained why her grandfather was lying on his back in his small bedroom dying of a terrible and punishing disease. She got up and brushed her teeth until they foamed. She talked to someone with a big reputation without a voice without a face without a driver's license or an address whom she called god. She sang the most joyful songs she could remember at the top of her lungs.  

by #katyamills

the fish cannot see above water

i was running through a city park
dead grasses bordered an ominous sky
a man lay unconscious on the riverbank
where he had been fishing


desperation in a friend's blue eyes
asking could i help?


the sun setting
no hesitation
gotta be there for
my brothers

 #katyamills

withstanding

hunted on the hills

san francisco

hunted under the el tracks

lake street. chicago

hunted by the exes

by childhood

living in the shadows 

of my memories

god gave me the spirit 

i could not summon 

on my own

to withstand

anything

#katyamills

commission

god is an artist

the commission has no deadline

drawing us in 

and out

brushing over us all

with fresh

oils

#katyamills

faith 1

i believe god can only be felt not 

touched, heard, seen, gendered or named

and the way you feel god's energy

alternating creative and destructive

is by faith

#katyamills

plenipotentiary

if one were a god, or thought oneself a god, or the president of the united states in 2020, and wanted to test out creation, to determine it were sound, and demanded a father to take the life of his son, what would it mean that he complied? for he is confined on earth. this is all he knows. where he was born he will also expire. if he cares anything for his family and himself, he ought not kill his son and would rather die in his place. if, however, he believes earth a living hell and he should not think for himself, that he is nothing but a slave of god? then to take his son's life on command would be the ultimate verification, and sanity most certainly would depart. if this were the case, and one were a god, or thought oneself a god, or the president of the united states in 2020, one might draw the conclusion they are nothing more than a feared plenipotentiary. therefore, all would know that one had miserably failed and many, as a result, would come to question their faith.

i stayed away

all the way back to ancient history, i mean my personal teenage daydream, i stayed away from the opportunities the crosswalks the celebrations the teachers the smiling faces. i could see them but i could not approach them. they were there waiting for me all those years but i harbored social anxiety and a strong feeling i did not deserve anything good in my life. so it was personal justice i exacted on myself, the better part of my twenties. then i hit the thirties and got a taste of freedom from my vices and moved to california. then the question of owning my identity arose. this would require courage and resolve. i could not conjure it up. i needed a plan and i got online and got with community and developed one.

i put together a career move that fit my strengths and values. i was working so hard full-time school and job with a serious commute two hours each way. i still hadn't put it all together, i mean, anxiety and depression and dysphoria were my lot. i had a few friends but mostly isolative. the pressures grew and i got heavy inside my head and i slipped up. you feel like all is lost. it can turn you against yourself. i was lucky to survive. i made it. i finally got it together. prayer and meditation. running and writing and self-publishing. finding my queer community. social work and therapy. giving and receiving. family. friends. owning all the narratives of my identity. reaching out to help others. dialing into my life again feels so great. i thank god.

hear.t.breake.r.

i was so looking forward to your visit, seeing you for the first time in 15 years. my blood. my cousin. the only one i've got, i mean, the only one i get to talk to anymore. i saw us roaming up to tahoe and down to san francisco, maybe over to the ocean. they had us pinned for black sheep all those years and we survived. i am closer to you for it. how my heart breaks to know you cannot come. what a crusher. okay. so i'm angry, so i'm sad you called it off. these are just feelings. the most important thing is your health. it's god's will.  i am close to you, all these miles and miles away.

author at home

finding a god

When wishing to find a god, it may be helpful to look around, after you search yourself. What do you see in the world? How does that make you feel? Stay with this feeling. Let yourself thaw out and care. God cannot move us through ice alone.

face it. for the love of god

my whole life begins to falter
my pulse breaks away from the pressure my blood runs up a fever and i get the wax pallor the second i clench my fists against an invitation...

dear god
tonight may i make a double
negative

god was involved

When they threw the book at you, you caught it and began to read. you sure had plenty of time, son. soon you were self-educated and ready to go out in the world. in your homemade uniform you promised to kick some pretty ass. you didn't even bother to comb your hair. a child playing with a deck of cards on a doorstep, looked up when you passed by. they stood up in their overalls and saluted you. that was the moment we knew god was somehow involved.

ten. indivisible

i breakdown, too. useless, not unlike a chevy silverado, nothin in the tank. if there's no coffee in me by 6am, make a lawn ornament outta me. so i start early, crackin those beans through the grind, by hand sometimes, yawnin bedhead and all, spring winter summer and fall, gotta keep myself runnin and runnin along, so i can be luscious good and vitamin k for you, my love, roarin my middle age burnin fuel with that special manner makes all the millenials turn their heads, double take, slap their faces to wonder where the hell i came from? yes, i am my own sensation, out in the wild west of this great nation, one being, guarded, sentient, indivisible, under god, and irreverent to the core. last week against all odds ran my first ever ultra, just ran and ran eight hours long like a lunatic, up and down quarry road through the american river canyon, drawing poison oak for the second time in three months, so sore for three days i could hardly walk and find me thrilled through the pain... just now i saw the county job i applied for has hit processing stage, so juicy like a quarter orange shall i climb out of my navel and squeeze on to the commodity, precious life, dear god, and hopefully get around my self center and finalize my time, this life, on the carrying about in service to those less fortunate, county state country corner, with a beating heart and a backpack and a rushing spirit glancing off the darkness like light does. that's all i want, anyway.

in my twenties and thirties

i was the kind who got kicked out of bars for mouthing off, demanding attention, who wandered off and misplaced myself in different American cities, found myself thirsty, dazed and alone some afternoons, in alleyways woke by the sun, after nights i would rather have forgotten but stand in my memory still ... yet i could always find refuge in the nearest public library or local reading room where the silence could be so loud, you could even hear fingertips striking keystrokes to the tune of the turning of pages, and there in the warmth of centuries of collective wisdom could i manage to wonder how am i alive? there must be a God or the spirits of my predecessors looking out for me, i am so blessed and cursed, i am ... my twenties and thirties were absurd at times, my natural privilege did not always work for me because i convinced myself i oughta earn anything. of course i held a job down most of the time and was responsible about rent and stayed mostly out of jail. i was neither thief nor leech on to another's good fortune; i mean i made and paid my own way. i was often in a relationship. i thought i was in love a couple of times but in the end i wouldn't work for it, i wouldn't make the sacrifices and maybe, just maybe, i did not want to be loved. i was critically self-centered and bursting with pride as i walked solemnly toward my next humiliation. i think i wanted to be punished. back then, i was not interested in god.

Shine cafe in Sacramento. photo by K

it was obvious

i was in pain over life and just breathin was hard
i was reading Franny
then Zooey

i was falling asleep
listening to the world series

bathtubs and smokes
ashes and water and
manuscripts too

nothing's like 1955 anymore
but reading
listening to the world series
falling asleep

i was in pain over life
 just breathin was hard
someone and their make america great again campaign
make america hate again

make america
force america
love america
hate america

we would be stronger together
our future president proclaimed
my boyfriend kept calling and calling
 the ringer was off and
it was obvious

i gathered strength
 all alone

i was thinkin about god
 just thinkin about god
 clasping my hands around my pillow
 lying on my side

made the pain somewhat
made the pain
subside

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)

Journal # 04.04.17 + Maze 2:17:1

Good to get yourself on 'a mission from god'  (Akroyd and Belushi). Or a mission from the buddha, or just on a spiritual mission. You can rise above this mundanity, all the plastic bullshit we encounter out in the world. I tell you what! I would not even get out of bed and didn't!  For several years rarely! I was shooting plastic into my arm. I was snorting plastic up my nose. I was fucking plastic dummies! I was smoking plastic. I was seeing plastic. I had to railroad myself into my personal mission from god. god was lowercase matte finish and unrefined. god had to be a weed that would drop roots and take hold. god only came when i fertilized my soil with shit! Wet plasticine dream semantics. And that's why I do what I do. Not that I don't love you. I do. You deserve every bit as much higher altitude, greater bandwidth consciousness as anybody! Settle at your own risk. I did and I could not get out of bed anymore. What gets you out of bed in the morning? The answer was nothing. Maybe plastic for a time. Still I decided to live, I don't know why. 12.12.12 came and went, and my heart kept pushing the blood through my extremities. My altitude was underground. So I was an unusual kinda freak and I'm sure I still am. But I was no pushover and they would have to make room for me. I ate my spinach and took my pills, so I could get out of bed and get on a mission. The mission was clear. You see it everyday. You can find me. Right here...  MAZE 2:17:1 final chapter... a reading...

people kill beautiful things pretty well

 

beat up by life? K by K

Let life just beat you up the way it does. When a flower stretches up out of the soil, it's growth lends itself to danger. When you were just a seed and just a bud germinating underground, in your mommas belly, you were pretty safe. Once you grow up you're liable to get stepped on, mowed down, picked, torn asunder. People kill beautiful things pretty well. We put them in vases, we crush them behind glass.

This culture this world is suffering an overabundance and equally lacking. I cannot tell you why because it's too much to hold! Are you like me and one cheerio shy of an oh my god what the fukk is going on? The asphalt just imprisoned my garden. Our secrets will never be safe.

Lemme go deeper. Into those places where you feel you make sense. Spend more time with friends,  more time creating, add a little family and kittens to the mix. The strongest connection oughta be the one you have with yourself, your spirit, and whatever releases you from your ego, humbles you, makes you small enough to relax into the systemic. Some call it god and i don't mind either. We all need somewhere to extend our child.

Stay your beautiful self
Don't let them kill you

Then let them...

Die another day. The sensation of coffee down your gullet. Wear yourself out with your kids, your work, your monotonous chores. Go off to social sunsets and live to see another day.

The sunrise will feel better if your aching into it, arthritis summons compassion for self. Asthma summons compassion for yourself. Panic Attacks leave you hugging yourself. Fevers bring your attention to your self. Heart attacks make you focus on caring for your heart. Strokes make you remember how to learn. Cancer makes you grateful. HIV gets you pushing for your dreams to come true. Depression makes you stronger. Anxiety gets you to relax.

I will hold your spirit over here. Carefully.
Will you hold mine? You don't have to. I can just hold yours.

Expect nothing outta anyone
except yourself

Expect greatness out of everyone
and yourself. You star
you!

Accept yourself. Love yourself. Grow up and
Show people your colors. They will grab you.
They will not believe you. They will argue and you will suffer them, too.
They will suffer you.

Open up to whatever you're out there doing.
And let them take you
out.

the indie in me. the intimacy. self-publish yourself to death. for life

Cadence in my head, coffee mug in my hand and a laptop fired up. Hair falling about my face, tickling my nose, where oh where did my eyeglasses go? Trying to let my imagination find me, she can have me, oh grand channeler,  saucy bitch, take me, take my arms, wrists up, fists into palms. Here I go again to the graveyard for the pay. The work is good, I like it, keeps me honest, keeps me humble. Not really spending much money, not making much money. If I could I would buy some time, though, forty plus years old and some street life to show for it. Lots of hard lessons I think I finally learned, lots of colorful visions and deep seated incisions. A good dose of radical acceptance in my heart. I will only be a mom to all the motherless children in the world. I am American and all the good and bad that comes with it; I may not be able to find Cameroon on the map, but I can tell you where several authors homes lie and Siberia. I will do my own dishes and raise kittens until the day that I die. Self-promotion is a bitch. Sometimes I gotta open the flat of my hand and slap her aside, get back to the tabula rasa, open my veins to another page, anchor here, deus ex machina there. Inhumed into Book #3: Ame and all her tangy energetics. All that toxic boiling blood has to settle somewhere. I can laugh about what I've made of my life, I keep faith, I can love myself now. Out of the fear and into this great struggle where I found myself belonging all the time, to write, never missing a day, and try and keep up with what may come by the sharing, believers in me, when I have trouble having faith in myself, I like to let them know I'm alive and they touch me. Don't know about you but my indie spirit gets my ass outta bed. That's just the way it is. I am on pace to publish a couple novellas a year, a comparatively slow pace in the self-publishing arena, sometimes I think I oughta write more and faster; but the people who read my stuff tend to calm me down in my temporary crisis of confidence, and tell me its okay, they can wait. Just make sure I keep delivering the goods. Radical acceptance. I can breathe. I'm okay with my pace, coming back from that silly sidetracked sometimes comparison-shopped myself with someone else's success. It's very important that I stop there - it could be envy - and translate that fukker into inspiration. You indie spirits out there, you are my best friends! Always sharing how it feels, how it aches, and the catharsis behind the blood sweat and tears over these years and on your own. And here we are. Never alone. Your goddam life hiding behind a cover for all to know and some chosen few to cherish. Chosen because they chose you. How does it feel? The intimate moment (so far away) at once shared with the one who reads you, the one who gets you, who gets what you're trying to do? Wow! I'm a rooster just before dawn! I'm stretchin into the biggest smile, the exhaust of a yawn when I'm done with the edits and the story's been born. On to createspace, the tweets, goodreads and reddits. Thank you god for showing me the way. So many of us out there, having a blast and working hard. The possibility! Each one of us a star. And nobody needs to know in the end cause it's not an adulation game, it's simply a lifestyle. Hit a hundred thousand keys or more. Suited up on everyone's doorstep. Unraveling it. What you have to say. Your fresh vision. Your bloody mess. The writing life, painful as it can be, is the only life for me.

ORION

Orion and I was tryin to love you but it was hard. We cannot always be sure of ourselves in every way, and when I broke out (in anger) the words hurling and curling their way lugubrious in the chill of autumn air,  and you there; I seemed unable to stop myself so righteous and defiant for a five minute drive home from dinner.  God it was the worst of me. Of course I took to rest by the sounds of postseason baseball curious to the darker mood. I wanted the electricity back. But we all sometimes short circuit. I woke with an apology on my lips and typed it into a text. You were calling, calling me, but in these early hours of the morning on my free days the only one i talk to is in my slippers out on the back porch with the long hooded sweater woven black and white around me staring up to the heavens missing the moon, I mean Orion.