shift.ing

life once was song 

created and produced by crickets

ina full throated silence

now 

flying down a dirt road at dusk 

consumed with emotion 

she demands 

we find another

gear

#katyamills

not

i was not gonna wait for anything. not for my day to get better. not to get along with you just so i might feel differently

no

i chose to take it and
make it my
own

irascible remix

irascible
yet trapped beneath
the truth
trying to see through
stepped on
glasses
blurs
into a gel
rolls out the socket
on to the pavement

shaking like a molly
warped by
dropsy

i woulda died for clarity
squished my sides for the truth
beneath a rubber
soul


by kwm

acrylic.15

acrylic made 4 good makeup
girl when hung on a wall
and bludgeoned by praises

K

type.writer (archive #K) -iv

we drank coffee and squeezed oranges
in the morning. canadien whisky
at night with milk. smoking
4 finger lids

the letter c
started to stick
i had to find oil
and take arms
she was essential
to my vocabulary

tuning our guitars together
swimming out past the
sandbar to the lone buoy
the hammerheads liked to
circle

BOOK READING 2.15.1 GWB

Journal .000696 rpms

Everything is lined up perfectly for our success. Yours. Mine. 
The horse is in the barn. The squirrels are in the trees. The mendicants on their knees. 

The world is rotating at .000696 rpms. 
The perfect exposure to the sun, for consciousness to bloom.
Warning to self. Do not let this day slip away! 
As the world turns, let the fat burn. 
Sizzle! 

Give it all away again. 

When the mind's exhaust casts its mist over you, obscuring the perception in pings of many deadly thoughts, be sure to stop where you are and challenge those thoughts. 

Who are you to be envious of another? 
Who are you to be full of anger?
Who are you to wish harm?
Who are you?

Those instincts which once kept us alive, will always haunt us. 
They were burned into our grooves. 

K reading... murder. in the eyes

K IS SILENT @ wordpress
Original Spoken Word
Story by Katya 

Murder. In the eyes.
 by Katya Mills

She looked around the city night. 

The canopy provided by the trees made this street darker than others. 

Low hanging branches and leaves flecked shadow into the metallic orange light painting the sidewalks.

A sociopath stood unseen. 

Camouflaged against the papered concrete walls like a barred owl.
She sensed him and he sensed her sensing him.

Were she only distracted by an iphone or earbuds, he thought. 

But he would not be disappointed, standing there, silently watching her navigate the street in her fishnets and heels.

Only his pupils moved across the smudge of cirrhotic, ashen pale of eyes.

In the walkway between buildings, not far from there, beneath a basement apartment’s window well, out of sight, lay the crumpled formless residue of human life and spirit. 

Breathless and emptying itself of fluid.

The spirit of the dead hung heavily over the sociopath, like a large cotton overcoat immersed in a pool of blood of all the ones had died by his hand in the night. A parade of frozen faces preoccupied his mind, his thoughts.

She gripped her pepper spray tight. 

She knew the unnatural evils under city lights, 

might come out the woodwork and contend with her sex.

She remained unafraid, carrying herself gracefully across the pavements. 

Aware the heavies were awash in their own karma.
Some terror of what one has done and cannot undo. 

Gyre of samsara, spinning down toward the core of the earth. 

For infinity. Forever.

the first intərˌlo͞od

I got a Recording King Guitar
yesterday, at a local mom & pop shop called 'The Fifth String'

So on days like today, when I got nothing to say,
I may offer you some freestyle
six string
steely

 intərˌlo͞od

~ enjoy ~

K reads... 'like thunder' (original non-fiction)

'like thunder'

posted on K IS SILENT

July, 2013

All my world had puffed up like a blowfish around me, then blew a massive hole in the ocean. Like those bastards, BP. I came out like Jonah from the belly of the whale. I had found those goddamn roadflares from my truck. The ones I never had when I needed them, stranded with my hazards on halfway down an exit ramp off the great highway. Well, I took advantage of my luck. The moment the clouds gave way to the sky. I struck a match off the heel of my boot, and lit those mothers. Without hesitation. That’s when the whole thing blew wide open. Pretty close to the time the world was supposed to end, again. The impact left ink trails falling all around you and me. Poisoning my ecosystem and yours, too, for a little while. Until the great ocean diluted and detoxified, and cleaned up my mess. So life could go on again, uninterrupted. I’m sorry. I can tell you I am sorry today and I mean it. I thought about it for a long while. Days upon days, actually. There was hardly nothing to do. I had taken my usefulness out of me. Fell asleep on the couch in the dead heat of the day. My kittens stretched out wishing their fur away. The television was on. The television was off. My hold on reality was tenuous. I lost a cat out there. Just like I lost one a decade earlier. I lost alot more, backsliding and sliding. Everything I tried to communicate seemed to come out all encrypted. The more I plugged in passwords and master passwords, the less safe I felt. Probably no one but my ex-boyfriend really truly wanted me dead. But I guarded what was left of me, with all that I could. The nightmares cascaded, if I fell asleep in the silence. Only the ceiling fan spinning far above us. The Tibetan bell I hung off the light fixture was ringing ever so softly beside me and my broken ankle bracelet hanging off of me. 

When I could breathe again. When I could read again. When I could look you in the eyes again. That’s when I noticed. When I no longer wanted light, but got lit anyway. I picked up the kittens and kissed them many times. Their bodies hung limp from the palms of my hands. They trusted me so well, they could drip off my arms and melt into the air. My heart melted inside me, over this. The trust, I mean. What a fucking gift. I carried them and myself down the hall to the bedroom. Many times, every day. My eyes half burned out from so many moons and full suns. I can feel my age. The surface temperature of my skin seems to have elevated, substantially. My head aches, and my belly grows. The infertility is juxtaposed. My imagination was seen as a dove by a merchant marine long out at sea. Coming home. My spirit is the delta. The heat of the day seems to linger all night there. My kittens cannot stand to drape over me for too long. They want to. But my body, their fur, well, it’s all much too warm. All my world had puffed up, you see, an inflammation of my soul. And this wasn’t gonna let up so easy this time. Not this time. I had done alot of damage, now. I had painted over the woodwork. Restoration was a bitch. All those relationships I chose, over the relationship I most needed. Let me tell you, it is good to live alone. I hope to stretch time out into solitude. With a steady stream of social media from which to drink. With a world outside my windows waiting for me, when I cannot think. I lost alot by losing myself all the time like that. This was okay, to be worn out and all. I could remember the past, I could tell you the truth some day. But the conscious bold type is screaming grade A psychotic. Still fresh. I think it only right to be humble and patient, not slough the old skin any faster than it wants to. Not so much, but maybe a little at a time. Maybe a little like now. I am not afraid, but rather listening to my truth all alone like I should. And it’s telling me things. Important things. Nuances. Sometimes painful like hell, sometimes touching me so deep. I am so sensitive. I hurt alot. I suffer, but not always in silence anymore. I cry alot, but without shedding tears. A lot less drama. The explosion was necessary. A spiritual emergency. The difference now is the break. Allowing things to shift a little. So I can safely think. So the ecosystem can take a little ink. So I can go out and buy my rice and pasta and fry up my corn tortillas in olive oil, while the green beans are roasting, Indonesian Sumatra. My life is a blessing. Any way that it goes. My choices fall in succession, in rows after rows . The holy temple of my spirit, was always with me and protected. This was my saving grace. She almost got ground out with my Newports, under my heels. I often tried to extinguish her. But I have so much to offer, like they say. I could open a fucking restaurant and offer all day. Anyway. The moon, she is waxing, and the darkness fills around her. I can see it, feel it, know it, be it. The substance, the system, the whole damn thing rides on spoke balanced wheels. I roll them twelve miles, as I get to know myself again. I roll those wheels and the flame delivers like magic, between my forefinger and thumb. My sweet kittens, four brown eyes, two on either side, watch in wonder. In wonder.My verse drops my spirit, like thunder. Like thunder.

K reads... 'a fullness'

'a fullness'

 original material by Katya Mills, 2014

all rights reserved

K reads her little poem (to you)

K reads K

from K IS SILENT

xxooooxo

 

Sand Stone

K reads 'pray maybe de-escalate to stillness' #1

Katya reads...32 bit clerk!

Katya reads...

written, directed, videotaped, 

and starring Katya Mills, 08/2013

credit is good (at the food bank)

She did her day like any day before it, squeezed the juice out of the whole orange. She was a benevolent juicer. And a clear and present danger to rinds, husks, sheaths, shells, and exoskeletons. Snakes slithered away from her grasping hands, in the tall grasses of her her unmowed back summer yard. Turtles sped away. Turtles!

She had done her day. She had chased the sun over the horizon. It started like any day before it. A dark room. Predawn. A box fan sucking cool air, and spitting it, into her face. A goosedown blanket, tossing feathers into the breeze. Like some retentive golfer, worried any ever slight change in the direction of the wind might add a hook to his drive, and a stroke to his score. One of those night lights you can buy for five bucks at Rite Aid, splashing a spotlight image of fish in water, on the ceiling.

Featuring prominently: the awful sound of her prana, facedown in her pillow, half-suffocated by the weight of her own head. And by virtue of relentless dreams in which she was being chased by a clock with great arms and long legs. As the arms windmilled around the face of this clock chasing her, the time seemed to age her, in this recurring nightmare, and before she woke, breathless from her mouth in the pillow, she was an old woman losing ground to the malevolent clock behind her.

So she cried out, startled, then, upon realizing she was in a soft bed with a soft light of fish splashed above her, and a boxfan of fresh air blowing into her face; she snarled and grunted, and turned to her side. So to Live! my friends So to Live! She was and is and will always be a survivor, like that. Saves herself, from herself, every predawn morning. Wow.

Near dawn, she hunted down the tv and chose a special treat from among a sparse channel universe. There would be extra-special commercials with former NFL legends touting catheters for men. Former talk show hosts touting blenders. The Fonze, touting reverse mortgages. Alex Trebeck, hawking life insurance. Wow.

In between the deafening roar of former TV-icons gone dollar signs, she got drool relief from the wonderful world of cold cases, put in the DNA microwave and come out piping hot. She was only one of denizens of global tv junkies and insomniacs who had fallen completely head over heels for the soothing voice of Mr. Bill Kurtis from Chicago.

Aside: She was no ordinary listener. She had once directed courier traffic to Mr. Kurtis' very office on the near north, arts-intensified, hollywood central of Chicago, Illinois. True! Thus was her tenuous, personal connection to that lullaby soft voice, which helped invigorate, relegated files from the eighties. She neither knew nor cared to know anything about his legend, how he exposed Agent Orange, among other things. In her mind, TV has bombed the hell out of Vietnam, and she was sick of it. She wasn't even born in the sixties, yet she had watched so many war stories, she felt like she had fought in Vietnam. She even considered naming her three cats, Ho, Chi, and Minh. 

Nudging the darkness back into some light. That's what made the difference in her days which were all almost the same. Being just like Bill Kurtis. Staring at death, with a benevolent kinda gaze. The kind she would have between her and her newborn, if she ever gave birth, again. The kids she had already created, were trying to destroy her happiness, she thought. She preferred to think on other things. Nudging the darkness into light. Having survived herself at dawn, facedown on the pillow, she could relate to the victims of darkness...in the most tenuous of fashions.

Aside: Not to mention her other glorified attribute: she was a hot-blooded, one part Irish, one part Icelandic, lightning rod for truth! Any personal description of her, risked undermining her exceptional aura. Only her television set cast a brighter light, than herself. Oh, and her credit was good (at the food bank).

Katya Mills, 08/13

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.

Dedicated to Occupy Oakland. 2011 -i-

Then as life goes you find you get into something so completely, what you do, your purpose, you get flooded by it, simply deluged. No matter how big or small, valuable or cheap, honest or sold... warm or frigid cold. You join a movement. Or maybe you just cheerlead.


Now you may be the one to yell out in pain of the betrayal, when injustice strikes you in the head and puts you in critical condition. Like on that cool Fall evening in Oakland, California, twenty eleven. The Occupy Occupation. The supporters of Oscar Grant. The soldier who went down that way, with a head injury.

The source of pain is not always physical. Yet completely personal. We get to thinking and we float. We don’t feel grounded. We get anxious. We see the river but do not want to confluence with her.

Unnecessary
Apartments get neglected
Androids are selected
Relationships hit the rocks
No more watches on the wrist
We cannot synch our mp4s
Or patch things up with a kiss
No more clubs. No more country
Everything in spade
No more dinners
Just pharmaceuticals
Lost your lucky jade


Then might you wonder, what must I do to survive?...
sit my ass down
 open my ears
occupy space
express shit needs expressing
stand head to head with riot police
gripping their tear gas guns
their stun guns
their revolvers
lets hope they aren't dyslexic
when the draw comes...

Oscar Grant lives!
tagged on walls all over Oakland
well into the occupation
of the plazas and the squares
ninety-nine percenters
everywhere

 Releasing a new kinda mix, from urban to the styx. Back on Broadway in the States. Class.
Not afraid to bare its lovely working ass.
Without judgment without question and without answers.

Then arrested
 atleast four score of them
Willing to go to jail
Excommunicate fear
Bucket head a canister and line it with baking soda
Breaking codependency with status quo
Laugh until your laughter turns to wet dew of tears
Fall then to the ground and be received with great thirst
Take a route down a root
Deeper

deeper deeper
deeper deeper

Moisture and humidity
feeling all life
holding it closer
to you

closer closer
closer closer

right up against yourself
right on

Into the company of
hundreds of thousands
of mostly decent honest peoples
representing even those
who were ordered
to stop them
and came
right

right up against themselves
right on
right up against ourselves exactly
where we
must
be

11.11.11. (st8 of shock)

11.11.11 (st8 of shock)
by Katya Mills 

written on 11.11.11
kissilent.wordpress.com

This version of our global state of earthen affairs in oakland of alameda of california of united states of america of pan-asian of northern hemisphere of caucasian of indigenous peoples of egyptian-descended of one common descendant of sapiens of homo of mammal of water, element of air, element of atmosphere, of carbon of familiar of greater universal, foreign, of spiral of vortex of black hole of tangible space, of vacuum of void of emptiness, never forgotten otherworld of unknown of infinite of celestial of solar, of andromeda, of not of andromeda, of love, compassion and deep respect of universal communication, today, gregorian. 11.11.11. morse code until we grow old, holding cards stubbornly until the inevitable cash-in, i.o.u's pencilled on trees. folded over. staying in town tonight, baby? please!

votive free of motive

We hit redwood forest
the trail became arduous
we struck sacred ground
out of breath
just the three of us

The czech was independent
the german, creative
 the native...
 native

We were three natural forces
with our inherited powers
forgetting the seconds
the minutes
the hours

Forgetful non-selectively
 within the span of one day
to give space for whatever...
to get out of our way

lighting one single candle
flame red and blue
dancing
at nightfall

generation of shadows
signed off by
a votive

the whole essence of the scene
free from all motive

we looked into our eyes
transparency level
raised high
where all became possible
 to live free or
 die

by Katya W Mills
kissilent.wordpress.com