unlikely places

they found intimacy 

in fighting in yelling being

pinned against a wall

deep beneath the ice they 

was yearning  

#katyamills

holding on

prints in the snow

breath frozen on a pane

of glass was as close as we

got all winter

i loved you even more i

clung like an icicle

to the photograph. your

words like a child drawn

on the back

#katyamills

overshare

wild sockeye salmon
broiled with sprouts potatoes and stuffing and
she liked it. we talked about our lives. i got caught up
in the story of my past and overshared. i could
not retreat

you got a real friend when you
decide to stick around despite the urge to run
shake the salt and pepper and
it only brings you
closer

telling

telling was the night upon the day long and hot and humid until the end

the night and
     like a shot it shut
                         you down

i took you to the spot
where all the revelry
was muted

distant

the interplay of
telling you how i
truly felt without
a word

m x memory -vii

The leaders of the silent majority were, in this case, unrecognized; the best intel found them having just departed around the time you wondered aloud where they were. This brought tears to the loyalists eyes, although it may have been the preponderance of onions. You knew they had been there by the discarded skins rustling around your feet... everyone deserves a moment with those who wrote the principles they chose to live by - 4 seconds of fame - such an act of devotion impels unity and the kinda nonlocal intimacy comes of hearts and minds in alignment.

K after a 20-mile race!

Yet the antagonists are always gathering like clouds and forcing the separations - an end to to the aforementioned sunshine - and the fading vibrations become absorbed in rugs beaten over handrails in city streets and back alleyways. Rugs are beaten publicly, of course, as they are well known to be taken out upon, in these lands.

lost in books

When I was a little kid and the youngest of my family, I remember there was a lot of safety in intimacy I mean touch, there was a lot of playful gripping and holding and caressing and embracing, playful fighting and running and pushing and pulling, between kids and kids and adults and kids and friends and cousins and kids and family, there was a lot of charging and edging and rolling and rough handling of me, picking me up and tossing me in the air, or letting me get on your back or sit up on top of your shoulders when I was young enough to be light enough to be carried that way to be held that way to be safe that way and those days were so wonderful they could not last long enough. There was even a sad time somewhere when I could not reach out to you - nor you me - and I knew not what to do with myself, only get lost in my books.

end of technology?

Improvisational
comedy

by
KatYa

Journal #05.07.15

Touch became a rare and valuable find in a market consisting mostly of audio-visual sensation. A new trend took place, whereby bodies were lying on the ground. Many people left the city for an hour or a lifetime, in order to find a field to borrow or to buy, in order to be able to finish breakfast and coffee and online communications, and head out of the house, off the bottom step, past where the pavement ends, into the center of said field, and dropping oneself first on to one's knees, then back on to one's back or forward even on to one's belly, with or without clothing, to feel the touch of the earth and all the organic matter therein and thereunder. Sun bathing was another form of intimate reception, but no longer viable due to melanomas. Human touch was another form of intimacy, but quite unlikely due to unfavorable market conditions, legalities and general phobic disinclinations. This sorta experience was almost miraculous in the year 2059. Metrosexuals would stop and circle and glom in an insatiable crowd. Certainly not within reasonable expectations. Anyone who cried out about lacking this sorta intimacy, would be ridiculed for sure. Like walking down the street expecting someone to hand you cash money without asking. They would wonder aloud what planet are you from? To which you might respond, Earth, circa 1973? After which, disheartened and alone, you slagged on back to your field of glory, removed your polyurethane skin, and dove headlong into the irrigated mud, hoping to drown. Good news. The exfoliating powers could be exponential.

K READS INVISIBLE IMPENETRABLE TRANSPARENT NONEXTANT WALL PART II

ORIGINAL NONFICTION BY KATYA MILLS

(first published on kissilent.wordpress.com)

To whom does intimacy port? How does intimacy travel? Is it firewire fast? Scanned thoroughly or just one-passed? When intimacy gets all awkward for us and scares us, like we are losing the ability to connect, man to man, woman to woman, cross, duck under, stretch, stare, flare, and circle in courtship with such fanfare? The movement is fascinating, but what about the other plains? Do we not still need umbrellas, every time it rains? Relics of nylon stretched over the wiry, long, hovering fingers to the tips. Do we even touch the rain? Does it touch us? What does it mean to dodge all this feeling, being, suffering... seeing?

How will our your species keep up, unless we me port ourselves soon? We know how to run. To hide. We are intimate with rather the ever more impractical, ancient art of NASA space shuttling, away away away. Gasoline is so flammable and smells bad. But it's energy, so take it, tangible smelly burning solitude of petrol, never to upload. Simply bleed out and soak in, absorption into the earth, dissolving into the air. Breaks your my our collective heart. From about where to where? Away away away.  So much easier to gravitate away, along the shipment channels standard, the paths prepioneered, the snow carved out like ribs like rivers like thanks, like giving. Less work, more sedentary Tryptophan-inspired ennui. 

And thus you me? You me we? You me we are free. Aren’t we? HBO specials on dead presidents who stare back at us, with iron spirits carried on currency. Have currency, have freedom? Have nots have none? I you we get confused mixed feelings that throw off our equilibrium sometimes. Fresh liberation we feel so true! Next year enslaved in another addictive groove. Low and weary, we they obey the countenance command: level up from source – level up now…. sad.

Stored back with the medicine balls, the deflation. In the dark, reprioritized, put on the desktop and in the taskbar so you cannot miss it, humanity; but its like an antiquated major looking uncomfortable as Latin between Chinese and Spanish…uncomfortable, horribly so, inside the cardboard strung together, placed over the shoulders of our teenagers needing currency so bad, so bad they would advertise something other than themselves, direct produce and starring in your next product placement plan you put to action. Doing things like we know nothing. This much about nothing.

This much about something. Something about suffering. Something about not able to get quite warm enough in the cold, cool enough in the heat. Not quite able to get exactly the comfort required to prevent a progression toward madness. The garden grows out and over, the vines together cut back to the knees for having passed the invisible, impenetrable, transparent, nonextant wall divides you, me, us. What was to protect us in our idea of safety and personal refuge? What was. What is solitary kind of confinement. Solitary refinement is how you work that angle of free, solitary, introverted, workaholic genius. Empirical proof for us all to be in relief. Relieved.