4.30

only one and one only. additional memories were not required to set their nerves 2 rattling and heart 2 thundering. this one came in the scent of a particular bloom had thrived in the garden. not a crime witnessed. kept within the family until they got a good therapist.

#PTSD

watching the many screens 

killing the endless hours and

they say there's a heart in your chest

i don't remember and they say 

there's thoughts in your skull

i don't know. but it's better

to be numb than feel

#katyamills

the form they took so pleasant to behold

i bought a glue gun

spread the pieces out on the coffee table to connect them

the traumas they ruptured my memories

then walking around town the questions were flying

where did you get such a lovely coat? how much did it cost?

trust me it's more than you are willing

to pay

#katyamills

triggered

rarely to never at a loss for words

i find it kinda funny. must be a distant cousin 

of trauma. i laugh out loud 

in the company of strangers

#katyamills

july 29

our energy burning hot 

guarded close to the heart 

we talked until our tears 

dried. the monsters by candlelight

walking the walls pushed 

round by the wind

in a hopeless place we 

made a pact sincere and fought 

like hell   #katyamills

bastille

i stir the dregs

with boiled water and write 

simple lines expressin

how it feels to be

alive

#katyamills

heavy metals

dissociative

staring at the wall again

they turned up the volume

zero calorie heavy 

metals to defend against they

demons  

#katyamills

lost in cityscapes

in between dreams i had gone for a pee

then fell back under

my arm wrapped around you

palm pressed into your belly

white

i found myself again lost in cityscapes 

only this time your 

cat eyes beside me softened 

the searching

rain

#katyamills

joie de vivre

on the roughest days they

turned up the radio 

hoping joie de vivre might 

rub off. the no knock warrants of mood 

and memory 

how lucky

to be alive

#katyamills

immersion

composing worlds in solitude

what a way of seeing something missing

bringing into being what

you seeing

they can go there 

all who belong

#katyamills

chess

not even nabokov by the light of a coal miner's headlamp can deter them. the child prodigy. blindfolded. paraded all around europe by those who wish to profit. these tumultuous nights and dreams...i am paraded around the same. i awake to cry my heart out before sinking back reluctantly into sleep. there are a couple pieces left on the board. cat on a windowsill. sentry. the tea candle has burned off. the lover. answers my call, day or night. take me. i am your queen.

ptsd in me

years back
some awful stuff
i witnessed
i lived

i carry a diagnosis
ptsd

a gang of sensations
still oppress me
from time to time

this inability to feel calm
for days on end. particularly around dreaded
anniversaries

i check the deadbolts
again and again
and still i cannot
feel safe

in my own home
in my own head. even
in the fellowship
of friends

despite the love
of family

i hope they go away
but if they do not
i can be thankful
i survived

katya
2018

circulation

If the universe is ever expanding then let us be expansive, too, in our generosity and openness, seeing each sunrise as an invitation to explore our communities and discover. This is hard to implement after trauma. I looked inward and outward and realized: becoming bright and friendly and inquisitive, open-hearted again, is one of my secret projects and clocking several years now. The world does not need me. But I am better off in circulation than out. 

another loss -ii

We stayed up all the night long tradin' EDM cuts and smoking, and kept mostly quiet about all the damage our exes done us, knowing in our hearts the damage we done them, too. This here was as close to the street as I ever got, out of luck on the room I had paid for every week for several months, (someone had spotted my cat and complained, again, pets were not allowed) with the half-promise of a room in West Oakland, from the mouth of a corrupt attorney with one foot in the dope game and high all the time. I had no other recourse, none at all! This was twenty eleven. I had only to be willing to scrub and paint a small room full of furniture and covered in multiple cat stank, and I could stay there for the summer. This was the house of a second attorney, an alcoholic moonlighting as a cat doctor at home, who got in over her head on Magnolia by DeFremery Park. The day I met her she asked if I wanted to make a quick buck, and walked me downtown while instructing me how to serve papers. I remember hesitating as I approached the window, a government agent behind glass, and looked back to get a nudge on from under the wild gray-hair, permanent slouch, and a wandering eye. She offered me a drag off her pint of Southern Comfort on the way home. I was fifty bucks richer, cash, and desperate. My unemployment had finally run dry  in this boarding house on 28th @ Telegraph, telling time by Kojak episodes, and my friend whom I shared a room with finally got sick of me or spun out, and bailed. By that time I was already sharing a bed with a punk I met, upstairs, and not around much anymore. On my bicycle most of the days, a Motobecane i had mail-ordered online several months ago, and always brewing pots of some of the finest grounds from Indonesia I procured from Sweet Maria's down the way, a local coffee distributor a stone's throw from the Port of Oakland. Didn't have a job and wasn't really looking most of the time. PTSD was my common denominator, and divided up my senses, hanging them far and wide by the neck, until dead...

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.