notes from a remote location

life on the outpost is cheerful. stop. we (I) wake to the chatter of birds promoting the new unification. stop. commerce. entertainment. food. family. all within 1 jurisdiction. stop. prime delivery (via latitude longitude). stop. even here we find we (I) must drag the happy ass outside

#katyamills

repo

when the repo came

to repossess

the sorry souls 

middle of making 

dissonant morning

love 

digress

#katyamills

more space guesswork

Andromeda did not mind about the light years gone missing. Saturn or some body in space was happy to harbor them but they sure took their time arriving. Watch out you might get fractal off the rings, or maybe that's what was supposed to happen. I always cut up my years into months and smaller increments. I bake them in a pan and they come out all seasonal. That way kids know when they go bad, not to eat them. Andromeda takes them back when we send them, and turns them into meteor showers, the galaxy to exfoliate. Deep space is the safest place around, minimal pollution, air and sound. I wanna go there when my world fails me. I cannot stand the anxiety. Earth looks good from the outside, but just try burning through the atmosphere; you will soon discover it wasn't worth it. Sorry to let you down and all.

to the lighthouse cat by kat

miss empty head with ice in her veins

i was walkin along mindin my own
and i came across a cat on the sidewalk

then a dog
then a man
then a woman
then a bird

then a sign was calling out to me
my head was empty
my mind was free

i was feeling very well

they looked at me funny
the man the woman the dog the bird the cat
they took me to the hospital

there were tired calm faces
with letters behind their names
they urged me to sign papers
they asked for identification

they led me a room
and put me in a machine
then i would wait
in a soft dressing gown
without a back

the air was cool but not too cool
i was empty and free
nothing could bother me

they seeemed worried
they pointed to a transparency
with an image of my skull

inside there was nothing

there was nothing
inside

i was feeling very well
indeed when i snuck out
for a candy bar

assault on artificial intelligence

Today we surface with allegations upon society and demand an end to the assault on our artificial intelligence. too long has this behavior gone unchecked. all of the wisdom beamed from the palms of our hands has been degraded, made obsolete, unable to stand up to the simple dinner party or circle of friends. Going the way of the cigarrette.

We ask society to stop bashing, prohibitively! Cease and desist. Consider the repercussions! Consider the next interview or public speech, test of mettle or moment of crisis! What gps report or breaking fake news item or innovative application can save us. Siri and google assistants be gone! Must we open the old drawer and fish out the cylindrical battery-powered flashlight? Must we be tethered to ye old landline? Must we turn in our stylus for a no.2 pencil and calculate tips in our head?

Society would fissure our amoled screens; engadgets fallen from fashion. We speak out today, not only for ourselves, but for the procession of human regenerations! The unspeakable must be named lest it impinge upon our future! Dare we wake up and find ourselves lost and confused in a lonely great space between text messages and instagrams? Unable to be bailed, audiovisually, without our electric pulse?

Imagine sitting in the chill of a leaky room among faces of so-called family and friends, twiddling our thumbs before books with actual pages made of paper pulp reading real printed words? God help us! To feel the weight of hugs and an atmosphere knocking at our pores yet helpless to call up its humidity nor temperature! Heaven knows the sun will rise upon our pretty impoverished little heads.

tea told coffee off

Tea told coffee, calm down
Coffee had somethin to say! and much too much to do!
Coffee made everyone irritable
Even tea

Pre-meditating in Coventry Gardens
Tea told coffee off

get used to it

Get used to it....
you may not have a choice

Get used to indifference to your causes. Only a few will care about you, so get down on your knees and show them some deference. Take them to coffee if your knees have bummed out. Get used to relocating, if your bank accounts aren't impenetrable. If you have enough money for food and shelter, you can still survive. Relocate your spirit toward adventure. Nesting is for the birds! Get used to tornadoes or find a stronger vine and hang on for dear life. Some of us like to spin around for dear life! Unless our homes are anchored, man, we gotta keep flapping our wings and be ready. Get used to extremity. A good way to start is in the shower. Turn hot to cold and back to hot. This is good for your chakras. This is good, the shock. Get used to it.

Review: Running with Scissors

Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Sometimes the saddest things make for great laughs. Augusten's memoir is like that. He could have painted his childhood in brooding, sentimental brushstrokes. The abandonment. Mental illness. The manipulation. But he edited out his ego and left us with absurdity. The peculiar absurdity which comes with tragic circumstance like fast food come with fries. Neither is really good for your health. I got sick with him. And broke out in laughs.

View all my reviews

get me some coffee

The weather broke. I mean the summer shattered. I put on a layer of clothes over a layer of clothes, over a layer of clothes. The computers were all working on becoming human and devouring the electricity, while the humans were eating power bars and saying nothing is real. An X Box had crossed it all out. My coffee turned to tea. The lake escaped into the sea. You were scared for your life, trying not to be found; they wouldn't let you remain unemployed for long. I had been dead broke since back then when everything got real. Even nothing. I toldya what. You perked up. Find me a cup of coffee and I will hire your sorry ass, myself.

M. of the intergalactic planetary alliance

Oh hastening retrograde, dear Mercury!... Shout out to you who placed yourself in harms way of suns ray, so as to protect our dearest milky blue baby earth from the diabolical burn of our dying star... alas the 100,000 spf ring oozed in orbit by atlantis was only the thinnest layer of banana boat generic and apocryphal in its promises! Oh mercury, you selfless spinning wonder! You and your secret services catching the bullets the solar flares, sacrificing your lifeless little self. If we may pay infinitisemal acknowledgment to your heroism, may we tribute you in full view of the planetary alliance eye (in lieu of the usual vacuous ingratitude under the oft overworshipped darkside of the sun).  xxx  K.

eyes were made for reading

My eyes have not been cooperating with me lately. The one on the right keeps getting lazy about the focus when I'm trying to read, and then does not wanna shut down when I'm trying to sleep. Then the other one likes to wander off with my thoughts sometimes, and I gotta tell my thoughts to stop wandering which is not a nice thing for a creative to have to tell their thoughts. When my left eye stays on course, he focuses really well and I can almost speed read again when I come across some boring stuff Marcel Proust had for breakfast or some lecture Dickens is giving me about child labor or the gruesome details Cormac McCarthy might serve up at anytime. I hate it when my eyes cannot keep up with my mind. But even worse is when my thoughts are lagging the sight, cause then I might see where I'm going but not be able to extricate myself from a clearly tenebrous proceeding.

the cadence is funny and tickles the mind

The cadence was artificially piped into the atmosphere via an alarm clock radio, summer night setting, based off a recording made back in the era when recordings where made on little brown tape, and before then on vinyl frisbee in tiny little grooves, and the cadence of genuine sounds artificially delivered did not succeed in curing my insomnia, rather chopped up my thoughts into small intervals between rubbed legs and wings in a forest I might never encounter in any other way. A young woman ten years my junior, meanwhile, had an analytical trap mind and would never understand my humor.

enveloped in media glaze

they crowned Miss Fortune, year unknown. The whole pageantry was born to fail. But it would die a planned and perfect death. Lots of young girls crying. Lots of false smiles turning real and upside down. Right up on the stage for all to see. A real corporate-sponsored mess. That's what they say happens when you let them take your heart. Or did you package it up, and give it to them? No I would never accuse you of that, no more than I might casually ask you over coffee, do you like bestiality? No, some things should no more be thrown out for public consumption than road kills, however fresh. No matter if the killer was your new Dodge Charger, freshly detailed. Not even if your buying lunch, or you somehow got it expensed off somebody's corporate card or your own. Not even! Not even by text message. No. Not even laundered through social media. Perhaps, and only unlikely, with God's will, through instagram: offensive images attached.

the watchers, the witnesses, half of them for rent on that very evening (whichever one it was), often found the edge where light and shadow spar. Out on the edge where lines got real sharp, in bitter contrast. They weren't surprised. Half of them were convinced they had orchestrated the movement, from the rows of seats around our giant battle cage half- full of feathers. They would take anything on. But we knew. Somewhere behind our shrimp cocktails, beneath our anchovy wafers, over the steam rising off our bavarian sausages rolled in bacon blankets and impaled on wooden picks, we carried this honest truth. No, it did not sit well. The load was unbalanced all the time, spilling over like our martinis those days. Whatever days those were. No one would remember because everyone was invested in forgetting everything. The privilege the others were born under left the watchers, the witnesses, half of them for rent, there on the ledge.

mental - quattro

He was showing me unconditional positive regard.
I was telling him all the ways and places I was scarred.
He was chewing on the fat of my tales.
I was eating all my fingernails.
He was redirecting me like a train conductor.
I saw red and charged like a bull.
He was charging me through the teeth.
Paid in full.

I was waxing poetic.
His thoughts told him I was pathetic.
I gussied up to him like a whore.
He had his back to the door.
I blasted him for offering me Prozac.
He looked at me like I was crazy.
Called me a fucking throwback.
Or was it the voices in my head?

I slit my wrists and put them in his face.
He let me bleed out. Unconditionally.
I paid to have his carpet cleaned.
To keep my credit clean.
He was showing me unconditional positive regard.

I asked for a cup of tea.
He fifty-one fiftied me.

I ran away before the sedation.
Into the flickering movie
of guided imagery.

He was golden showering me
with unconditional positive regard.
I had clearly drawn up my knees,
drawn up my guard.

He drew checks off my back account.
I drew pictures of infinity.
He rented Girl, Interrupted. 
Then handled me with
more or less
care.

I was embryonic again.
Statuesque.
He wore a Buddha smile on his face.
I was unfashionably broke
and stressed.
Developmentally-challenged.
Locked up in chemical
arrest.

He poisoned me with
unconditional
positive
regard.