land

the questions

they do not land

let us prepare the tea

and with the sunset 

be 

#katyamills

plenipotentiary

if one were a god, or thought oneself a god, or the president of the united states in 2020, and wanted to test out creation, to determine it were sound, and demanded a father to take the life of his son, what would it mean that he complied? for he is confined on earth. this is all he knows. where he was born he will also expire. if he cares anything for his family and himself, he ought not kill his son and would rather die in his place. if, however, he believes earth a living hell and he should not think for himself, that he is nothing but a slave of god? then to take his son's life on command would be the ultimate verification, and sanity most certainly would depart. if this were the case, and one were a god, or thought oneself a god, or the president of the united states in 2020, one might draw the conclusion they are nothing more than a feared plenipotentiary. therefore, all would know that one had miserably failed and many, as a result, would come to question their faith.

what was life

what was life before our devices which stand between us and our loves and our lives?

hunting the unforgiven

I find it wild and a little unsettling to see my country focusing on witch hunts as the ranks of the unforgiven grow, though the feeling is matched by the redemptive quality which forms in our cultural atmosphere each time someone's longheld secret is released and truth stands up finally to power.

This year we have witnessed several figures of great power in Hollywood and the District of Columbia and Manhattan blasted on Twitter and sued and denounced on mainstream media, and a few who have been stripped of power, in those cases where they are clearly (if not by forensic evidence than by the numbers of allegations and survivors) guilty of abusing and betraying the public trust by their actions.

How do I reconcile my mixed reaction to these media moments of horror and truth and compassion? I was once guilty of betraying public trust. Day by day, for several years, I have been working my way back to respectability. Society is giving me a chance to learn from my mistakes. A life cut up by addiction. I left myself behind and lost my mind.

Only god knows if I will make it tomorrow. My past is history. Today I do my best to participate in life and help out, bringing all I have learned with me wherever I go. Sharing. Caring.

What of these public figures whose pasts have caught up with them? Outcasted from society and unforgiven? Why does it disturb me to see them disfigured and disrobed from their fraudulent personas? Isn't this justice and long overdue?

I guess it's sad to watch people die that way, publicly, and sometimes their loved ones have to die alongside them. Meanwhile the victims of their crimes survive. It is unsettling to uncover what they have lived through, the survivors. I know because I am one, too.

I wonder where forgiveness fits in, when it comes to the unforgiven? I wonder if there's a certain hell where healing never starts? A tail end and no beginning. And how it came to be this way?

death by MVA

There must have been 4 tons of car coming at you with a green light letting us through. Me in my Volkswagen, an old man in a Chevy, and a lady sliding off the highway in a Subaru. The time was 2pm, the city drenched by waves of heat. I saw you riding your bicycle slowly into the intersection ahead, and wondered would you stop? You kept pedaling with an icy stare into us, 3 lanes of traffic against your perpendicular. I'm not sure if you wanted to die, but you sure knew what you were doing. The physics, the mathematics of the equation, did not at all look promising yet you kept a steady pace, a mane of black hair falling behind your tan face. You looked maybe Latin or Native American, and ready to die by MVA. Why? Did you lose someone close to you? Were you socioeconomically starved? We all pressed into our brake pads, and the old man in the middle lane lay on his horn.

We were long gone when I wondered; were you laughing in the aftermath of an adrenaline rush? Or were you disappointed? Or had you gone on to Broadway, indifferent to us all, searching for cool water, a smoke, friends, and some shade.

Journal # 04.11.15

When i lay me down to sleep last night,
i forgave the world
otherwise insomnia, and flashes of the past
the friendships that went down in flames,
and new ones might not last

What the restless feeling?
watch it wick away
i lit a tea candle into a box of amber glass
with faces on four sides.


Another one had died last year
another man i knew.
i was a year behind in knowing
and now that makes two.

you see i left my past in oakland or so i really tried.

absconded the norepinephrine
left me to die

rolled my life in flour with tilapia,
pan-fried with lemon butter
send me down
the Nile

a truck on a street
no friends and no life
willing to go

you can go to hell if you want
thinking you know all the answers
visualizing a dead end

or stay and discover
live through the pain
do it for someone other than yourself

making most of your time
diving into your passion
immersion in words

that's freedom

Q & A with K (bloghop questions courtesy of B.Y. Toropov)

B.Y. Toropov tagged me in this bloghop
He is a phenomenal fiction writer and his novel,
 'Jihadi: A Love Story'
just reached the quarterfinals of the ABNA
competition. You can find him here...
http://brandontoropov.blogspot.com


What are you working on now?

I am working on and off and on. long days and drawn out waking nights. life gets in the way. I write and write from one to another day. I come lyrically correct. I keep my ego in check. I like to bring my passion to the plate. Hit the muse and dig into my memory crate. Feel it in the hollows of my knees. Sometimes I write because I suffer. I find myself steely eyed cycling through city streets, Sacramento. With my chakras my only memento. My past falling behind me in the wake. Conscious beat to the circadian rhythm of spring. Awake. Sometimes I listen to Drake or Lil Wayne or Coltrane to inspire me. Sometimes not. I run pretty hot. I got what I got and don't need no more. Pick up my chromebook and virtual book tour. From me to you. I hardly knew this was coming. But all I can say is when I freely share, something like an electrical current fills the air around me. And my three cats. Mouse, Boo and Rolly. The houses of the holy.

How does your work differ from others of its genre?

My writings are stylized. Style is my key. Unlocked by my heartbeat, my passion, my sweet sweets. The loves of my life and the loves that I lost, and the world that I dreamed of coming closer, yet still. I mix lyrical poetry and prose sometimes. I flash the fiction, a sudden moment, a teardrop, a piece of time drop. From my head to my heart. The systems all down, come up every day, the words streaming effortlessly into play. I see them, I grab them, they fall in my lap. They are juicy and sugary, like a maple on tap. I come from the woods of New Hampshire, you see, where people will die if they cannot live free.

Why do you write what you write?

I always had trouble getting my voice heard, in social situations. I was a second child. A rebel. An Aquarian. I got a mac plus and began to write my own narrative. My voice had its own little place to exist. From an early age. Maybe 8. Maybe 10. Maybe who knows when? I began to love to write, and express myself, and locate my gps in a mad, mad world. I never stopped. I found myself, writing. I found myself writing. I found myself. Writing. This is why I write, and I write mostly what comes to heart. What comes to mind is fine, but must be distilled by the heart before I push it into paper, or virtual cloudspace. Crowdsourced into plus-dom. Driven by tweets. Wordpressed like grapes into wine. Fresh off the vine of my experiential. And now, when I touch a single soul who reaches out to me, this is worth all the lives I ever lived and some yet to come.

Describe your writing process?

I can write on a train. I can write on a plane. I can write in a bar. I can write on guitar. I can write in a windowless petty old dive. I can write myself out of a noisy beehive. Something happens, alchemical, whereby I get juiced, two becomes four and the deuces get deuced. Then all goes wild and I try to keep up, channeling something risen up from the ground. I write to the rhythms in a place with no sound.


I am tagging two people, whose writing
I have been particularly inspired by in
recent weeks...

Vanessa...   http://vanesadawnpoetry.blogspot.com

Kristy...      http://kristypoems.blogspot.com

K reads 'Impossible Unique'

Original material by K

The lyrics to my song...
(from K iS SilEnT)

'impossible unique'

I can love you
seven. eight
days a week
our love
in / of
impossible
unique

regenerates
the snake

a nation
beneath
the lake

a question mark formed
around the life form
inside of us

thirty-two seconds
to unconditional

a timeless future awaits

spirits on dates
drifting down rivers
of corrugate
glue

heartbleed city
who knew

zero
balanced
degenerative

yearning for the night

predawn of artificial 

light

candles. burning
lifetime 

supplication
in / of oxygen

fall asleep breathing

in / of love

impossible 

unique

not the same old narrative 

on a fog bank 

overdrawn

yawn

take all the pictures
marry them silently
passionately

take all the i's

 (before e's)
teach them selfless living

strange

 to suddenly see
receipts of deceits returned
to the store

strange!
impossible unique

strange / dear god!
so suddenly free
impossible

unique

no longer above
no longer below
candle wax flow in
and of love

digi-soaked

when it all ends
what will i have to show?

coffee ground residue
in my blood
marrow

when it all ends
what will i do?

rise a vapor spirit
then inhabit
you

when it all ends
will i get to look back?

at my life
as a GIF
on a repeat
track

when it all ends
will i have any friends?

to kneel on my grave
and split all my
ends

when it all ends
will i still remain?

or just my blogs
and my ebooks
digi-wet
in the
rain