august 9

from sun up to down they

hardly got time to reflect 

life was bad and good that way

got the heartbeat up some 

hiking they pitched camp equidistant

from being and doing and 

read a book. no matter how

deep the stories took them

life would be waiting

#katyamills

good

the best thing about good
maybe that good often comes of bad
and good comes of good
too

whereas
what with bad
bad comes often of bad
and good rarely so

KatYa
2016

manifold #06.05)

Yes i am single and no, i am not alone. i have been protected by unseen forces, many times over. no it is not a joke. not a dressed up way of dreaming with words. it is true. many people will look at my life and think failure, only because they do not understand. some of these people may even be family and this is okay by me. what choice do i have? everyone with an opinion. yesterday someone i have known for many years called me a tragic genius and i take it as a compliment. it is not my opinion. all i know is life has been a dream! really a dream. all what once seemed rock solid, in childhood, got unhinged and started moving and became a puzzle and the the pieces when they fit together, turned into water and rushed off, and the ones that did not fit turned to sand.

i am single, and not alone. i am happy and sad. i am emotional and then i am thoughtful and sometimes all feeling swells up dangerously in me, then short circuits and goes away. maybe i find a release, in the nick of time. maybe i shake it off. ghosts, maybe spirits, surround me. they really want to live through us, otherwise they would not be around us. i can love them, too, i don't need to see them. we have been protected by seen and unseen forces. i know i have. this is not a state of mind, for the heart is pumping and very involved.

DECEMBER 25

Wax pools
on windowsills

roasted chestnut
pine burning
turkey roasting
and dripping
away

coffee and cream
awoken from dream
to dream

sight of snow
or wreath and
bow. and lights
like stars

sound of bells
ringing. nat king cole
singing through the point
of a needle on vinyl
to you

children
laughing and jumping
for joy


smiling christians
at the dawn
of day

the kids take the stairs
three or four at a time
to the tree
and gifts
below

grandparents moved
and moving real
slow

may saint nick
ride his sleigh on

eight or more
magical flying reindeer
deep

to all the homes of all
the bad children
too

to see the no good ones
to forgive them

may saint nick
ride the magic on
to the east

to the islamic children
the buddhist children
the hindu children
the hebrew children

so all
of all faiths
feel loved

big and little children alike
on christmas day

good and the bad
naughty and nice
ones who eat meat
ones who eat rice

ones who never seen
the sparkle of ice

and may we learn a thing
from our imagination
this Xmas

and learn to love
more easily
now

immune

The attacking poison would pay dearly. 
She activated her immune response via
subtle movements, CNS defined. 

The battlefield she oversaw,
 expanded over time.

The poison wept in amber waves of  
venom tears, for hours (felt like years). 

For fallen was to be its fate. 
And stained, the back, with civil war. 
Her flesh inscribed and sore.

The platelet ranks advanced some more. 
Expounding all the while, the triumphant cries of war. 
She counted blood cells to her sleep, 
to battle, single file.

The morning came all fog and wet,
 in sheets white where she lay. 
She felt dissension in the ranks, 
cerebral moored in clay.

The immune victorious had taken ground,
 far beyond her reach. 
She could not stop the growing fervor
now burning up her breast. 
Far beyond good and evil, 
comme Nietzsche.

She wrapped her all in white flag sheets,
 to call off her directive.
In streaks red across the spine and limbs, 
her system, unselective. 

The overcompensate immune, 
in hanging heat of noon.

She had to rise above the madness, 
so summoned the divine.
Her salve was god, prayer and rest. 
And irrigation, calamine. 

Profile: filter systemics, 2013 -iii)

She tried to grab her identity before anyone else. In the year 2050, this was a hopeless prospect. Babies were suing multinational corporate enterprises focused on this niche. They called it the born-on-capture initiative. And sadly, they had bricks and mortar presences within a mile radius of every major children's hospital in every major American city. These enterprises were expanding exponentially, and the Supreme Courts in every state were so bogged down with the useless appellate productions coming through the judicial systems in waves, on such trite milled over morality plays as abortion, same sex marriage, and gun control, they could devote little time to proper slashing and burning of the heads of this now fifty-headed monster.

The only way to handle the situation was to invest in the temporal portal merchandise which would enable the jumpback to 2013 (although not guaranteed  successul) to remedy the situation via introducing a personal profile element now getting good marks on consumer reports and widely praised by the BBB better business bureau. Even Yelp, which would slowly be pushed out of the consumer ratings market by Squeal and Sigh, had remarkable traffic from avatar and gravatar subscribers, commenting on this particular element.

This element was getting a cult following, for sure. Geeks and tech-heads were definitely the first to understand it all. Props to them. They could save their money in 2050, because they had already invested in filter systemics and thus, their profiles were firewalled and their identities were safe. The rest of us were having to pay for parts at the identity salvage yards popping up everywhere. And, as the auto industry before them, you can bet these salvage yards were in bed with the towtruck webcrawlers, and milking and bilking consumers.

There was even a giant resale market of piecemail identity components, aggregating out from Eastern Europe's satellite-fueled under and overground, no longer cottage industry. The industrial revolution long-since revamped to environmental demands in the Western world, was still a wilderness the East, and a playground for Saudi third world industrialists headquartered above the clouds in Dubai.

The more surreptitious operations fueled by tax dollars of second world governments' peoples, were now in their infancy in locations only accessible by nuclear submarines or otherwise military zoned; Atlantis (under deep sea shelves around the globe), the Bermuda Triangle (mythically-feared and thus perfect for government sanctioned embedding) hashmarked areas outside Las Vegas (whether alien-inhabited or not), the Lyndon Johnson atoll, within and without the recently flooded Japanese reactors, Siberia. All locations were of course inaccessible to all but the most elevated credentialled contractors (most farmed out from the former NSA's and KGB's of the world), and, legend has it, had harnessed great teams of accountants to work over the tax dollars for slick conversion into operative dollars.

Katya Mills, 07/13 kissilent.wordpress.com
[Remember, this is fiction: You didn't hear it from me! ]

Rolling Allostasis -x)

And so goes the common revolutionary narrative. The opposition carried untold numbers. She took nothing more serious. Scrutiny was their middle name. Some of her prophecies just blew their mind. They shook their fists at times, and threatened great violence. Some of which was carried out in a spectacular show of untold force. They bombed our back yards. Our victory gardens, hung defeated. Falling premature off the vine. Hard and without fruit, the trees scorched the air with barren branches. Many of us looked up just so, and cursed the divine. We became tired. We tried to let some of it go. We let down our guard of which had not yet already been demolished, and awaited some sign. Suffering before the dawn of our eloquently stated, much anticipated, emancipation from any and all relative life support. Only She would let us breathe free again. Like chantix in the blood, but better. She was like willpower, but better. She was like a freeway seam, stitching a patchwork of concrete and farmed family squares, to the wilderness of her personal (collectively scorned) dream. Speaking truth to power would be no bed of roses, though she would not force us to do anything. She modelled her style. We got to witness it, if we only showed up. Her runway was  gigantic like the Pixies : a big, big love. She taught us we could make it, before we even knew what we were making. We received her message via newswire.

Maybe half of us subscribed. The other half unsubscribed. Half of the latter half prayed for strength to endure the former half. The better half. The better half of the half in prayer, became lost. Half of the lost became found. Half of the found, found themselves. The rest were relegated to the lost and found. Half of those who found themselves, experienced an awakening. The other half fell asleep. Half of those awakened experienced enlightenment. The other half freaked out. Half of the enlightened set with the sun. The other half were engulfed by darkness. Half of those who cast shadows, stood seven feet tall. The rest turned into tumbleweeds and tumbled down the hall. Half of those who stood seven feet tall, grew egos ten feet long. The other half checked their egos. Half the ones whose egos became checked, knew that they were wrong. The other half took swan dives whilst singing swan songs. Half of the swan songs auditioned for the Voice. The other took a dive in ratings, because they had no choice. Half of those auditioning, were booed right off the show. The other half went on to notoriety in small suburban towns. Half of those who lost their fame before it came, turned into phoenix out of ash, and rose up from the flames. Half of those who underwent the alchemy, now undertook great hardship. The other half flew south for summer. The ones still there, you could almost count, while lying in bed awake. They were not sheep. They were not dead. They were characterized in universal press, as having five to fifty heads.