kill it with truth

the ring has gone i lost it and did not know. then i worried about you and had anything happened. touch up auto paint covered my fingernails the pumice could not kill. and how had we died. you killed me with kindness and i. killed you with truth

complicate me

i went all out after i passed my boards today, pushed into third gear like a demon around rush hour, cut ahead of that old man's ford and made three randy's and a lucy into the drive through lane of the local starbux for a venti iced almond milk maple pecan latté with whipped cream scenario. i sure know how to complicate an easy thing. but goddam! there's gotta be more to life than your daily mister coffee iv drip to rocket you outta your slippers

luck

stamped lottery fare
scratched out

bored coin
thrown here
thrown there

casually discarded
to attract

a blade
a fingernail
what was luck

disillusionment
rubbed out
of

waxy
uninformed
young american
stares

seven

you recently got off the streets. you aren't getting any younger, and you feel your age. chronic pain has kept you from doing the work you love. i was just listening to you tell me your story, all the 'lost time' after you lost your kids and your purpose. but you don't feel sorry for yourself. you found a way to connect with your grandkids and even took them fishing. you still want to live even if you cannot always understand what for. i elevate you to survivor status. we laughed when you told me the story about the time you got shot in the back. you were under the hood in the garage, working on a carburetor, when a stray bullet flew from San Pablo Avenue and knocked you to the ground. once you realized what had happened, you dragged yourself to the office for help. they got you to the hospital and most of the fragments were removed and you walked out of there in under 48 hours. when you got back to work, you walked to the office to thank them. your boss had a parrot he kept in there, and the moment you walked in, the parrot saw you and started screaming: 'I'm shot! I'm shot! I'm shot!"

five

i found my peace in silence

i found my peace in a cup of coffee

i found peace in an early morning run

i found peace in devotion. working.

i found my peace in you

type.writer -xv

one morning you sit down
to your work with your coffee
beside you and

the tides have been broken 
they have turned on the ocean!
this is what you came for
so suddenly
emergent

disciple to words
the reading
the writing

the sea and the healing
fresh atmosphere replaces
the ceiling! an absence of the world
you recollect so unfeeling

your voice is upon you
you've found yourself! finally
the struggle is gone
you no longer push into page

strangely awakened
enveloped by an undercurrent
you sing the song you were born to sing
you come thrashing to surface!

like faith
you cannot see it
you only feel it
you know

these are the moments a writer lives by!
when time loses interest
appetite gone silent
and the sentences form on their own

full of spirit!
making meaning
full of feeling!
with rhythm and rolling

you collide with the page
like a strike
when you're bowling

thank the stars
thank the gods
you got lucky
kid

type.writer (archive #K) -i

1997
I had a Smith Corona postbellum typewriter

the war was for the world

so very wide

no.2 and sharp as a pencil

The body of the typewriter was a solid drab green

like a soldier

Millions were filled with lead

K reads 'faith'

Original poetry by Katya Mills, 2014
(from  K IS SILENT)



all i wanted was nothing i needed
when wanting
my need
superceded

i was told life is work
i was taught to work hard

i never knew faith

i thought
to control

even the sun
had to learn
without spin
the earth burn

even the sun
cannot control
all it made
all it touched
verdant spring
so inspired

even the sun
needs some faith
every night
to surrender
every night
we remember

every life
owes a debt
toward the sun

every morning
when the light comes
every life
looks up

to credit
the sun
its creation

far away
from me now

may my blood
sweat and tears
be the same
so my needs
my want
supercedes

without it
the darkness
eternally
leads

jaded as jade

There i was...

Headed out from my apartment on foot, wearing cheap ass walmart moccassins showing my toes, dressed to the eights (a casual step back from the nines), with blood on my arms from where my four month old kittens attacked me while i was sleeping off a one night stand with my pen.

There i was...

A young american single white female, contemporary of all the other genXers using some sort of animated fiction to report the hideous truths that could never be received by the culture embedded within them.

There i was...

Takin' myself too seriously. All the way down the stairway, with my bicycle on my shoulder, to the street... and then some. Tryin' to take my ass light-heartedly through my morning. Riding on down the street, in the middle of the road at sunrise. Highlighted strands of hair falling out behind my Fuji Feather, licking the base of my neck, like blonde flames. Under the influence of anti-gravity. In the dark and baby blue of the dawn.

There i was...

Down the street after dawn. Dealing with all the personalities of the world in a single room... and then some. Tolerating as best i could tolerate. Day #5 without a cigarette. My own personality, the most difficult and least refreshing of them all. Splitting hairs with split personalities. Jaded as jade. Spitting in the wind.

There i was...

Banana fucking split! Sitting upright on my bike, riding back home. Five miles of legs. No hands. Praying i might take a dive on the railroad tracks. Just so i could feel something different.  Split ends and all my hair falling back anti-gravity to lick my neck, in the wake of me.

There i was...

Dealing with the sinking depression that clung to my soul, all of my life.
Sinking back into my pain, as the burning sun rose silently over my head. In the pits. In central california.

Here i am...

Split ends and all
In the wake of me

Without shade
Praying for a miracle
Jaded as jade

- Katya 08/13

K reads... 'Forever stamp our hearts'

K.IS.S - DRIVEN X

Rolling Allostasis -viii)

She was a bad girl.
She had OCD secondary to her PTSD.
She had PTSD secondary to her Substance-Induced Psychosis.

Some believed her Psychotic Episodes were secondary to her ball of rubberbands in her mind, aka: her neurosis. She was obsessive with numerology synchronizations. One number off could send shock waves through the system. The system began with her, though it seeded further back in the lineage. The system did not end with her. The system was truly systemic, and did not limit itself to the material planes. You would wanna ask Ken Wilber if you needed to know more. He was born one day apart from her and a quarter century.  She would refer you to him, if you had any questions at the end of her lecture. She and he had only become acquainted in the highlight yellow tinge of a bluegreen spiritual aspect. Holographically acquainted. Beyond the shadow of a doubt. Carl Jung would bear witness. If you needed a witness. Like if you were gonna rent her an apartment, for instance. Or employ her in your sweatlodge. Or hire her for transpersonal tutorial. Or have her coach you out of some dark corner. Or allow her to listen to you and refuse you any begged for advice, on hands, on knees, at the base of birch trees, on the high rolling seas, deep in the grass valleys of your heart. Or wherever you and her might start. On the streets of Chicago or St Petersburg or the freedom red brick trail in Boston, or over freedom fries in some cafe in San Franciscos panhandle. Or panhandling or busking in Amsterdam, or in teleconferences with the second and rebellious daughter of the son of son of sam. In Oakland, California. In the Ukraine. In the belly of the fire of the beast of desire. In the world. In the ghetto. In the mind. In the heart.

Of course once you were in any kind of engagement, you could feel the adrenaline rise into your blood and arrow like right off the straight and narrow. Out of some dark hollow and into white light. The mindmeld you would field in the vision of it all, was truly hard to describe on any other terms than that old hippy regurgitation; out of sight! This wasn't a lecture at all, just felt like one at first. This wasn't some bodhissatva teaching, no, you were together in this connect, this was like us and them learning one anothers respective dialects and demanding nothing other than consciousness and energy on a whole personal scale, like a real private show, like some spectral lapdance in the constellation of the city, in the astrology of the mind, in the synchronization of the sunshine of your love. Fuck yeah, you would say to one another. See ya there. See ya here. We just did it, baby, we just got up and down with one another. Feel it? Ya. Me too. Fuck yeah. That's right. Afternoon delight.

When  you engaged her on almost any level other than the transparent superficial one, she would have to explain herself or not explain herself and remain silent before you looking into your eyes and staring at the sea until we simulcast away. Simply melting away On the topic of thorough self-analysis.  She took tireless heed of the numbers and counting. No room for guesswork or doubting. Her battlefield would be determined by alignment of stars. Under which she shared with her generals the finest dominican cigars. Cuban would be a jinx. She had no cuban linx (no heritage). Fidel Castro's kinship with her was soulbound, not earthly. so the breaking of any material ties was her imperative. When her people protested it hurt her heart indeed. The leaders of protest were of cuban seed.

She hated to cut off their heads. But what you do when you are feeling yourself on a holographic macro level, you cannot personally control. Like feeling the violence in the world. Thousands and thousands of miles away. The kinda thing that causes people to care about shit like buying product that has not been tested on animals. Like becoming vegetarian to protest the meatmarket industry, the treatment of cattle. Like raising money to save the whales. Like remembering a time before we crawled reptilian out of the sea. Like knowing you source from somewhere you never been.  St Petersburg. We will see you someday soon. To Russia with love. To all her artists and punks and freedom fighters. To all her communists and socialists, too. To all her loyalists. To all her residual enemies. To capitalism. To the USA. To better empirical relations. To the UK. To heartfelt sixth sense sensations. To systemic earthquake causing tsunami vibrations. To all those who died at the mercy of a wave. To all those surfing the atmosphere on cumulous clouds.

She loved and celebrated them all. her philosophy and lifestyle could be sharp and hypocritical. Some dismissed her altogether, to their own detriment. Systemically speaking Hypocrisy is not a four letter word. And dirt is pure ash. Pure sediment recycled through the universe inside our greater holoverse. Now go. Disperse. 

votive free of motive -ii)

We flipped a bitch after we passed the ethereal fields. We lay on that plane for consecutive hours. Then we sailed due north, cranked the crankshaft, released the nitrous oxide, dropped in the half and half. We sweated out our pores, and the perspiration thickened to consistency like glue. Deceased lay the toxic in the flower beds soaking.

We poured out all our liquor at the site. Our immune systems sent white blood cells, to seal in the heat. We burned the white sage, and the ceremony was alright. The spirit agonists and antagonists came out of the shadows. Volatile, caustic energy was dispersed. All energies and vibrations came together in mixed signal. The candles, they flickered and danced. Just a little.

The earthbound ones brought their demands. And the otherwise unidentified trio dissembled -- into innumerable grains of sand. Into parts and human hearts. To be ID' D or dare i say carded, by the keepers of the trees who suddenly started to sway. They leaned into the wind. They stayed like that, all fucking day long. Swaying and dancing and flexing their roots. Swan song. Suddenly started blossoming like apple bottom jeans on the strip. Shooting out shoots. Scoring pharmaceuticals on every corner. What a trip.