july 29

our energy burning hot 

guarded close to the heart 

we talked until our tears 

dried. the monsters by candlelight

walking the walls pushed 

round by the wind

in a hopeless place we 

made a pact sincere and fought 

like hell   #katyamills

post bok choy intention

the goldfish eye the

watery vision bok 

choy carried up 

on chopsticks the

distance between us

the intention to do 

no harm

#katyamills

omnipotent coffee pot

goodbye to this old year and all her worries and wonders. goodbye to those who died in the struggle for right over wrong, and may you live on, in our hearts, in our slogans, in our tireless pursuit of social justice. goodbye to this old year and her snaking contradictions. goodbye to the mirror and faded reflections of ourselves. goodbye to the ones who had to move out of town, may your adventures be long and dreamy. farewell to the useless imprint of ugly headlines. goodbye to the addicts who took one too many. goodbye abused powers and the fear you inspired. goodbye to new threats of nuclear war. goodbye to depression and not getting out of bed. we are young and inspired, facing 18 hour days. we will not be tired. we will not be phased. out of mainstream culture there arose such a clatter, boys and girls turned their heads to see what was the matter. the bells began tolling, the sunlight was rolling. good spirits were working and smiling a lot. they had so much to offer and an omnipotent coffee pot. 2018 the new year just begun. there was plenty to do under the sun.

denominator common

They made sure to oil the streets for the occasion, all of which led to Denominator Common. Being slick was central to the equation. The referent to this will not be put out front. Main street was unremarkable, while the side alley pass scuffles continued. You and me, we lit a single candle to see our cards by. Hearts was promising because you could shoot the moon.

Journal # 06.17.16

i may not be a geometry star, but i know how to leave the seven ball behind the eight and take your money on the nine, i might have lost our debate, but i can talk you out of getting behind the wheel, drowned in imperial pints as we are, together at last side by side in some pub, living outta memory, under overcast skies, looking in your eyes. i may not vote this time around, but that don't mean i don't know my rights, kid, in no swing state and we are colored blue and shaped like an ass, too. and i vote for you. i have been broken-hearted a hundred times over, but we will get her rolling again just takes a little tender love and care, ima mechanic of love, wavin' white towel flags to your window, you see, look up in your eyes, those wild and overcast skies, you stare down at me all wonderin' am i dangerous? will you fall for me again, will i charm you somehow from the outside in, and a bottle of gin, i might not hold a steady job, but see me beside you sunrise to sunset, holdin on to us yet, down calm like the charm, any unfortunate scenario, say, four or five alarm, seven ball behind the eight, and hopeful to disarm all that old unchallenged hate got you heavy, deep in the past where it's buried, someone who hurt you, and so you need help, you need love, you need someone you can trust. will i be the fortunate one? can i be careful and gentle with you? acknowledge every tear fallin off your face, pushed out on to the streets hand in hand for all tomorrows, or maybe just right now. dangerous now, come here. dangerous now, me and you and there's no other way.

readers help writers

How and why? Did a part of me die? The madness in my art described the sadness in my heart. Then someone walked by. The circling of my toe inscribed a path inside the snow. They told me about the sky, and how to use that space. My teeth were misaligned, you saw them in my face. Then the kittens came, a-crying for some milk. I went to find some sweet cream, I found it in a dream. The readers read my mind. I signed their hearts, with love. A part of me was healed. The message was not mine, the envelope was sealed. It came from up above. I told them about the sky, and how to use that space. Some fled, some stayed. They stayed with me, in grace.

author. city cemetery.

eyes that could be would be opened

The shelling was compelling, for though it destroyed many a home and many a life, it was something London (among others) learned to live with during the Allies war against Germany and the Axis. These times are long gone now. And yet someone somewhere being shelled shouts 'look at me! look at me!' (Palestine? Ukraine? Syria? Honduras? Yemen?). Shelling is a poor repeat performance of the human race. Let's disturb and destroy the perceived enemy's civilian population, by tossing from a cowardly distance and protected by armour (tank, missile, barracks), an explosive device into your family's sacred space. Peace swept off the table like porridge by the careless arm of a drunkard. Then the machines begin to pack up with ammunition and roll. The mechanism is diabolical for it cannot be stopped by a simple soldier with god and country behind him. Morality was annihilated in boot camp. The heart again subservient to the great mind. A human failing, repeated.

The shelling was compelling. How dare you say that? You must have grown up in an era of peace and flat-footedness. You must never have served your country!

True. And I say again, bearing witness to history and human nature; the shelling was compelling. For it woke up the civilians. The ones who lost their homes. The ones who knew the ones who lost their lives. The revolution began with loss. Set up an indispensable activism by proxy. Eyes that could be would be opened. The shelling was compelling. For all the pain and hurt and loss it caused. It caused a reaction that would change the world. It caused families who once had no interest in one another, other than typical mundane interaction, to become intimately involved with one another, and thus an extended family was realized. The potential was limitless. Just like any location any ghetto any land of lack or violence. The families become greater families become movements become love and compassion in motion.

The shelling was compelling. For by it, the best of human nature was yanked forefront into the world. The photographers flocked to the location and fired away. The photos would go down forever flat on coffee tables worldwide. The children would pan through the images and find out what their little hearts really can do. Seeing the decimated lands and homes. The sacred places where people came together to survive. Victims of attempted holocaust or genocide or declared war in the name of anything money could buy. Innocents. Angels. Hands reaching to embrace total strangers. Marches in the name of the sacred. Principles and spaces. Interlaces. What a dream. The shelling was compelling, only by the effect it produced which rippled around the world. Eyes that could be, would be opened.

stitching hearts

you threaded the
eye of the
needle

i watched you fail
and fail
again
again

i watched you lick the
thread the
tattered
end

you wanted me
i wanted
you

to thread
my head
with erotic elevating

the time it
bombed
the blood was strong

the pulse so
escalating

i stitched your heart
we had
a start

over and under
under and
over

something like
again
again

something like
creating


© Katya Mills, 2014