K reads 'Snowed In'

An original Vitamin K concoction

excerpt stolen from K by K
exacted with an exacto-knife
pure-filtered and underprocessed
refurbished for mass consumption

K IS SILENT @ WORDPRESS.COM
from 'snowed in and data-mined -iii)'

 


Being snowed in had a magical quality. The sun hit the snow and reflected light to warm the air. The icicles formed in and around the rain gutters as the snow melted off the roof. Some large enough to knock you out. I remember kids trying to lure other kids they didn’t like below these large icicles. Keep them there with some sweet, long-winded filibuster of a story. Wendy Davis style.

I often wished for the larger stormfronts to come over us those winters. I loved the early morning moments when my brother and I hung by the alarm clock radio, listening to the announcements of school cancellations. Waiting. Holding our breath. And the incredible feeling when our school was announced.

A blizzard can be a joyous occasion. You feel protected. Insulated. You don’t really know what’s going on around you, and you don’t care. Neither does anyone else. Sure, after a few days like this, you might get a little stir crazy, like Jack Nicholson‘s character in the Shining. The blizzard of ’78 was one such opportunity. I was too young to remember much, but where I lived the snow banks surged to eight feet high. School and work were all called off with a one-liner over the radio. All recreational events, suspended. Excepting procreation. The zoo was closed. Or just confined to your own home.

Imagine, no contact with the outside world. Power lines down. Incommunicado. You lit candles off gas stoves to get around your house. All was so quiet, inside and out. Introverts threw a party and no one came. Everything stood in stark contrast to the usual. We built fires. Watched the light and shadow play. Rituals were fresh and wonderful, except shoveling snow. Alot of people who had become plants over time in their homes (planted by the television), lost their lives trying to shovel their way out of their homes during blizzards. Heart attack city.

With television disabled, loving, mindful family interaction was again possible. For some. Hateful families got to go back to hating. Stress often took a back seat to more significant feelings. What could you do? Nothing. You were snowed in. You had to feel. You got an opportunity to feel. This could last for days! I must admit that, after a while, I wanted the old thing back.

K reads ... Black Denim Daisy Dukes II /II

'black denim daisy dukes' (part II)
subsidized surveillance mix
from kissilent.wordpress.com

Billy jean queen my way down the glass lit floors. three hundred watts of white light. a couple hundred pounds of black and white heat. all the onlookers fell back with their cash in hand. struck by the collision of lady’s night in the theatre grande. Maxell tapesque wind driven back in gale force, to cock block a stalker. with a hurricane eye, to allow in an admirer. or a gentle game of verbal chess, to challenge a so-called friend. those who were there to do what i said, became visible (and quite helpful). see i just needed some help to get my truth across. needed your help to brita filter out all the fluoride and dilute toxins in the mineral water of my mind. to goldpan my fucking stream of consciousness bitch. like my friend Viva reminded me on the phone it’s alright to be a bitch. to push back against the bullshit. the whole world is helping us now. check the newswires, you’ll see. because clearly we have subsidized an nauseating affair in our nation. clearly the nsa has strapped a probe on and given us free colonoscopies, with a search warrant. it is more than kinda upsetting. we paid for it. we asked for it once, but got it forever. we did not check for the expiration date. it did not have one. a National Surveillance Archive the size of the lone star state, processing all communications everywhere. domestically and internationally. coveting my metadata and yours. digital forensics will haunt us in the future. any and all off the cuff remarks we made over text, skype, on outlook or gmail, in our blogs, on our cellulars – is all being processed and audited and red-flagged if necessary. excavated and highlighted, in the low light of some intelligence agency analysts daily debriefing. the question mark has scythed the exclamation point. i will be lucky to make it out with my metaphors. intact. analgesic. in the half-light of the trance. the serenity of the dance. between me and my freedom of speech or silence alike. privacy never made it to the door. because she was already holed up straight squatting in the vip lounge. with the 360 degree view of the dancefloor. with the two way unclouded lead crystal glass floor downloaded and secured to the scenery. profound. delicate. profound plus. glass bubbles, built to shatter. hey, that’s autoglass. it beads. no matter. our big city club scene. over a decade into the new millenium, shines. solar panels recycle the light. shafts appear and strobe out before our very eyes. maybe we need the electric current. maybe i had to plug into the dotcom sitcom to see it. maybe it started the clock on my energy bill. may be pushing time into analytics. maybe space jammed in the eye. maybe gelatinous. to the very fibers of our being. maybe i didn’t care. maybe you do now. maybe we will tommorrow. all i know is what i think snowden knew when he short-circuited his life as his life was. by uncovering what he was made to do, the way he has. this subsidized surveillance shit needs to end. acid drop it into the clubs and put it in white light and acid wash jeans. and surveil it.

K reads... Black Denim Daisy Dukes - I /II

'black denim daisy dukes' - part I

(subsidized surveillance mix)

kissilent.wordpress.com



i was out there facing you and the world. through a portal i chose. nonlinear travel into the membrane of a postmodern club. on a bright near-life evening experience out. to subdue the indoor perry mason addiction tv blues. subdue with dub and sweat and light and you. to be overcome with the light of the darkness. you night owls, you know. kinda like a blindness toward the runway descent. looking to land. hoping to avoid catastrophe and chain reaction seated screaming affairs. i do not like to fly. not even in my dreamscapes. like some of you. unlike the rest. and somewhat casually dressed. like always. no formality, out there facing the usa big city nights, at this time in recent memory. i will tell it to you as unencumbered as possible. hope you don’t mind getting it raw like this. with or without punctuation, paragraph, or other accoutrements. i like to call it liberated. shorthand-like. abbreviated, but def not lazy. def not. no deliberations. no hesitation. pushing my speech out of the nest. opening another chapter of free thought. typed out. no hype. typed out. no ribbon. no tape. red, white, or blue. untaped, out on the wire. out on the net. without a net. full on frontal nudity. the air, brushed aside. the moon drawing the tide. the tenses got tense. tensile. disappeared out on some plank i made for them to walk. eat shit and die, i said. they didn’t hear the verb at the end of that sentence. they will not. they won’t. and wherever words drown down the slow pull of gravity underwater, they are as inaudible as the world dipped in hyrdrogen cannot be heard. the air dipped in hydrogen. a nice thing. i can hear myself think. i can pause and take a drink. drink the air and its free. like i thought this post was. like i thought my thoughts were when i shared them. like i prayed and hope my life was here in the states. the country. the place i reside. the vip lily lounge pad from the dangers around me. the darkness. the dark waters. giving me the premo. the premium democratic freedom. fuck if i haven’t paid for it! this stream of life that carries me on a plush pillowtop eggcrated fuzzy boombox of elastic sound and fury. i could stand up in the madness. i could leap off the stage into it. i would feel fingertips massaging the backs of my long legs. my caboose would later tell rolling stones in the post show interview how seriously it felt touched. my black denim daisy dukes got backside bankrolled by princes and treated to marigold sugar candy and treated like queens. Singlehandedly accelerated and driven to pole position. all my confidence safely locked up in the muscle. usa club scene.

Profile: filter systemics, 2013 -iii)

She tried to grab her identity before anyone else. In the year 2050, this was a hopeless prospect. Babies were suing multinational corporate enterprises focused on this niche. They called it the born-on-capture initiative. And sadly, they had bricks and mortar presences within a mile radius of every major children's hospital in every major American city. These enterprises were expanding exponentially, and the Supreme Courts in every state were so bogged down with the useless appellate productions coming through the judicial systems in waves, on such trite milled over morality plays as abortion, same sex marriage, and gun control, they could devote little time to proper slashing and burning of the heads of this now fifty-headed monster.

The only way to handle the situation was to invest in the temporal portal merchandise which would enable the jumpback to 2013 (although not guaranteed  successul) to remedy the situation via introducing a personal profile element now getting good marks on consumer reports and widely praised by the BBB better business bureau. Even Yelp, which would slowly be pushed out of the consumer ratings market by Squeal and Sigh, had remarkable traffic from avatar and gravatar subscribers, commenting on this particular element.

This element was getting a cult following, for sure. Geeks and tech-heads were definitely the first to understand it all. Props to them. They could save their money in 2050, because they had already invested in filter systemics and thus, their profiles were firewalled and their identities were safe. The rest of us were having to pay for parts at the identity salvage yards popping up everywhere. And, as the auto industry before them, you can bet these salvage yards were in bed with the towtruck webcrawlers, and milking and bilking consumers.

There was even a giant resale market of piecemail identity components, aggregating out from Eastern Europe's satellite-fueled under and overground, no longer cottage industry. The industrial revolution long-since revamped to environmental demands in the Western world, was still a wilderness the East, and a playground for Saudi third world industrialists headquartered above the clouds in Dubai.

The more surreptitious operations fueled by tax dollars of second world governments' peoples, were now in their infancy in locations only accessible by nuclear submarines or otherwise military zoned; Atlantis (under deep sea shelves around the globe), the Bermuda Triangle (mythically-feared and thus perfect for government sanctioned embedding) hashmarked areas outside Las Vegas (whether alien-inhabited or not), the Lyndon Johnson atoll, within and without the recently flooded Japanese reactors, Siberia. All locations were of course inaccessible to all but the most elevated credentialled contractors (most farmed out from the former NSA's and KGB's of the world), and, legend has it, had harnessed great teams of accountants to work over the tax dollars for slick conversion into operative dollars.

Katya Mills, 07/13 kissilent.wordpress.com
[Remember, this is fiction: You didn't hear it from me! ]