@ the market

proprietors of fish

walk the stones in aprons

hagglin with grease pens rumblin

over flavor skin and locale. onlookers teeth

pull apart the connective tissue

unable to satisfy the hunger

they walk away

the amity of the vendors

not 100% lost to them

#katyamills

portland or

creatures of sacramento 

in this moody leaden town 

pining for words we were

sun salutations in line 

across from new orleans donuts 

swept off to pee before we could enter 

the incomparable city 

of books

#katyamills

patches

the government sent the
not so secret police

even the iron on patches
would not iron 

on. you broke out
super glue

the same you used
to affix the stick to
your flag

your rough
locks in fighting
formation

got your attitude
always

painted another layer
of enamel on your
claws

texted your friends
to meet under the
oak tree

don't forget
knit hats the
masks the baking
soda


#katyamills

angels in portland

I have many angels they come in many forms. One time I was in Portland and they followed me there and saw I was in a weak state, susceptible to influence and likely to walk into danger. I had many an adventure over the course of several days, there, and met hardened criminals who I spoke with plainly. And I exuded an emotional honesty. I was smoking lots of cigarettes. I was in a lot of pain then, having survived a sequence of nightmarish events. I was in between worlds. I did not always realize right away I was in danger, but when I did I had enough time and conviction and skill to maneuver my way out of it. I believe I remained unharmed because of god, intuition, family, and my angels. I have become the kind of person who is more modest than proud, more intuitive than smart, more compassionate than driven, and more conscious of others than I am of myself. And someone whom anyone would be less willing to harm, maybe, more willing to get their needs met by asking me first, knowing I would be inclined to give whatever I can to you, freely.

Book Review

Drugstore Cowboy by James Fogle
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I loved the movie so I decided to read the book. Much of the material is based on the author's personal experiences as a junky who knocked off pharmacies with his partners on the West Coast to maintain their habits, and as a result were marginalized and meshed into a subculture exposed to violence, degradation, incarceration, and often on the run. The narrator owns his experiences like an adventure he takes part in 'by choice' and as an exercise of free will. The tone is one of dark comedy. The book is a quick read with simple vocabulary and lots of speaking parts rounded out by short descriptions and visualizations in and around Portland, Oregon. I felt like I could care about Bob and Diane and Nadine and Rick, maybe even more than they cared about themselves in the end!


View all my reviews

the rains of never end

All the old and endless roads across the continent I traveled, all the green and beaten highway signs, all the years weathered and cracked... still would I travel those distances twice to see your face and hear your voice and walk with you again. Break my bones with curses, you could not undress my faith. Our children walk the earth. They are lost now. One has left behind the room she rented and disappeared, direction south. I have a letter from a Honduran authority I have not yet had translated. The stamps are colorful green, with provincial luminaries unknown to us. The paper is moist and of a tree which does not grow north of the Mexican border. Our children. Lost. One has sailed around the world, never to complete the circle. I see him in a dream. He looks like you. The madness in the eyes. His hair has grown long. It plays out behind him like fire, licking the Atlantic somewhere outside the English Isles. The ends throw sparks. They tell of a time when we were all together. Living on the river, Portland. Fishing for our dinner. The rains of never end.

so shall it be

i love you more
i love you more

the words
opened windows
opened the
doors

i love you more
carried on across a breezeway
an old Portland
Oregon

musty Victorian
planted home in the rain
and damp

clouded like a broken
amp

being opened
to air out
all of a sudden

segue

french doors pulled apart
by old american arms
still strong from
a million and one
embraces

Florida room windows
pulled up from seated
faces

i love you more
whistles through the screens

our houses
our bodies

the cataracts slippin'
like contacts out
our eyes

i love you
more        2 see
i love you
      more        2 feel
i love you
more and more

and so
shall it
be