in the fog

late at night

they come 

they travel down mountainsides

within water molecules 

by gravity

then rise up off the grassy banks 

as condensation to hover

low over the city 

the full moon witnesses

the harvest. the lost 

souls

#katyamills

july harvest

they mixed drinks in the valley

with the plump hanging pears pulled from orchards 

hemmed in by vineyards 

a sweet exhaustion set in 

the sun usurped the sky and lit the 

golden fields

#katyamills

american farm

headlong

into your production

up at scratch every morning

intermittent flapping of eyelash

your ineffable ways 

like the moon but not a phase

ina daze you amaze 

every harvest  

#katyamills

october

the sun stopped paying attention to our land. we found our way to town by the light of the moon. we traded our apple harvest for peace of mind.  the shades took our offering reluctantly. they wanted our homes and our lives. the cool nights will give way to snowstorms. we can only hope to be deluged and snowed in for the winter. it will be our only chance to survive.

fall.3

the moon. full tonight for all to see. we missed it. i was watching you and you me. we rose. for all and the moon. to see.

cloud for sale. sinks in the middle

what with all was going on i began to think the world a dark place i could not find any light for seconds of every day not minutes just seconds not hours just seconds and me i was not sleeping well i had a boyfriend and the mattress i bought off the internet was supposed to float us on a cloud but if a cloud sinks in the middle well i did not know but this one does and what with all was going on in the world i began to think it a very very dark place and even the music i streamed into the audiowaves could hardly make me feel less insecure about our world our dark world our dark obvious future and then well the cloud it sunk in the middle the perfect cloud sunk me into my boyfriends arms and my insomnia went on and on in the dark and my boyfriend he got up and got dressed and left and left me there lying in the middle of a sinking cloud yes floating miserably so in the dark and cruel world you know but when i awoke and raised my head and got out of bed what with my bed what with my bed head and crawled up and out on the edge of this dark cloud and hit those goddam lights right and they were ecologically sound and bright white or not so and soft warm like the way i like them like old school kinda uneconomical old fashioned bulbs from way back when maybe the nineties remember then? and when i got up and fixed my bed head then said fuck it and put a hat over it all and looked me in the mirror and laughed and got my instant coffee made in the shade into my big silver bullet of a thermos in a cold and dark cruel world shattered by old yellow light from the eighties well... got my self to my insecure job ten miles away tryin not to do the old california rolling stops at the stop signs on the back roads dark and uneasy and unstable like sometimes but the highway and the stoplights led me to an open road below a very open and energetic sky for there yes there just above me and my politically disinclined am radio listening loser of an october preceding elections and what was it that blew the dark cold cruel world away but that gorgeous full wonderfully years of light brought forth like an opening in the sky for us harvest moon

ghost train. revisited

Oh ghost train
what terrors do you hold
as you launch across the landscape
burning in the cold

Oh scarecrow
what terrors have you seen
hung up in a corn field
where the murders been

Oh October
harvest and the moon
colors of the
dying

now I light a candle
remembering the lost

so when they come
to call

in the dark hours
in the frost

see
 them by
their shadows
      playing

in the hall

response to an image

Eyes opened ten at a time at the temple. Bodies became same color as the sky, on their way to new freedoms of mind. Others would turn the same color when suffocated. The shades were hardly discernable in the sun. Same eyes might return to sameness, soon after they found themselves on the other side of the arch between the walls around the temple. Life in the village would not open like eyes. Hope was in harvest, not in the work. But those who made it to the temple had curious minds and wanted more than their lot. They would return through the arch frequently, for each had offered a stone from their home into it's design. The god dressed in gold awaited them inside, and promised an easy vitality. Some would mistake it for fertility, in copycat poses. Brotherhood came out of the experience. Arms raised above the head, fingers clasped symbolically, just so. There might be danger in personal intepretation. But no more or less danger than personal interpretation of anything other than scripture. Vitality and comradery among men was something to fear, and would make the cities which lately overshadowed the village.

Journal #03.22.15

I am not even close. I must be still healing. Please forgive me. The static waves of radio fill my head. Tonight I work in silence. I wonder about this fleeting sense of power, the delusion of self. I do not mind it anymore. Worry and anger and fear get us nowhere. Pain and the effort to feel and transform it. These are my tasks. Forgive my always anti-social media. I would that we were closer. I see you in my mind. Smiles. Meaningful connection. The ones who ignore me tell me as much about myself as those who meet my gaze. Purple frosty haze and lemon peel. To feel those feelings I would not feel. I searched the swirling seas for you. Through volumes and volumes thrashing. The truth would not lie still. I wanted to believe in what you said. In your words, in those books I read. I began to move and be moved. The mountains entertained the sun, one slope at a time. We raced our minds and won. Solitaire was King. Derrieres did swing. The hydraulics in the bus felt good under us, and the windshield wipers washed away everything. The nose was born to bleed. The harvest came of seed. The dogs and cats at best were friends, the mice we did not need. Times were rough of an industrial age. We raced the clock and lost. Turn the page. Come now to middle age. Cellular floors kept clean by the slaving macrophage. My work begins today, in middle earth. Accompanied by an orchestrated abandonment of fear, worry, and anger. I am getting closer now. I must be still healing. Please forgive me. The static waves of radio fill my head. I will always be grateful for you. Endless life.

Journal # 02.27.15

Friday. Hope comes in funny forms. Losing the idea of a maid. Grabbing a broom and a mop. The mind fascinates when running or riding the bike. Oh the visions I have. The heart pumps harder, oxygen goes to the head. All ennui falls out the window. The sun, after a few days obscured, becomes a delight. The skin opens up its pores like a flower opens petals. Some rain in a drought may just do the same. And then the dreaded phone rings. And yes, the dreaded phone alerts. The dreaded alarm. Or the dreaded quiet, dark, descent into nightmares. No. Dear friend. This is not the end. Waking after a little hellish torment, is always so much brighter to be free. Take your bones for a walk and to dinner. Propose yourself a plan to make that dream come alive. Hold on to the blueprints, laminate them, plaster them on the walls of your mind. Then get to work. Keep the spirited sense of urgency! And when the fruits fall and are not anyone's delight? When the fruits fall and rot on the ground? There, there. This is not your concern. Keep taking sun and rain! Do not be sad for long. Let the fruits die. Another harvest is soon and sure to come! Keep giving yourself over to your passion. With urgency now, my dear, with urgency. I see you! You are a big part of this.