circadian

 get used to fucking up your circadian rhythms

#katyamills

december 5

in a sky swimming with currents

they held on to mom by fistfuls of cotton 

seated on a giant slab begging alms under the palms 

about to fall asleep when a set of shiny silver trumpets the angels did envy

heralded a monster rolling wheels big as they 

themselves   #katyamills

type.writer (archive #K) -ii

We rented a small house on the Gulf of Mexico
for 800 bucks a month
me and my friend
we got lucky

I must have typed 500 pages that year
on my little drab postbellum s.corona
to the rhythms of tide
and jazz...

dally into dream. wild who we are

We began by recalling the sea. which was not hard to do, for the sea faithfully came back from far places with green bottles and messages inside, wrapped in the trendiest of weeds. the sea happily let us believe, then to lull us asleep to the tune of the tides. i dallied into a dream i had when i was younger, back then a stronger version of itself. i recalled it sadly now for now it could not capture me like those days back after a war, before a war. sadly like a strong figure, man or woman, who meant something to me looking up, looking up to as a child. or some strong oak tree now dying, now slowly. now drawn up in my drifting mind, as i intend to open my eyes unblinking upon it, as though i may recall it so well it's not called recalling. where my memory ends it begins. the path made purely of small sea shells, both of my hands they were held. sweet talk of summer evenings and what ever to do. sounds and warm light spilling out of small houses. side by side. rolling granny applecores away beyond which wild flowers nobody need bother. leaving orange peels for a trail... wild is how i remember us then, and here, the foot of snail and sand, where our memories began.

stream # subzero

good versus bad could be the subject line in so many stories we tell one another, the backdrop for the narrative tales that thread in and out of the jacks in the boxes, the sevens the elevens, the wall green white hens laying eggs on your bank account until they topple and fall below zero to get charged lacking overdraft protections, the bank tricked out the selections, egg in your eye so all you see in the yolk of your mirror is some bloke whose tramped out and you clean and stamped out with some substandard nonglass maybe bleach infused product, summer tanned to understand and bleached on the beach, privileged to be lazy with your reach for the cell phone to make ends meet in another zip code, a city street, an elevation way up high in a place of certain control and power, soon to be undertowed away having worn the boot too long and through, having anchored yourself in one place. bombs away they say as they raze you -- only you can raise a new you -- a locus among locusts where from all the lofty semi-ideas truck over inferieures in hemis with emmys and gaze, bent over forward or backward or side to side just to hide your true feelings toward someone not quite befitting the mantle, the boss, the one who commands, the one who destroys outside thinking, the one who insulates the factory and checks off on imbalances. on the balance sheet of life its quite clear that the eggwhites of eyes register the very zero so many are fearing and steering as far clear of as may be consciously possible, and who knows where the unconscious is going sometime, personally or collectively dreaming away on a counter. what makes life interesting, makes truth stranger in many ways and harder to pinpoint than an invention of some no good for nothing unemployed poet mentored by purportedly self-actualized dharma bums and beats, optimized daily with new vegan recipes of brown sugarcane juice and cost-cutting and paper-saving methodology, supplemented by earth focused animal-friendly strawberry goo, and rather fascinating for a bonus, right? and that's what they think of you and me, too.

soft blanket statements

The urge is to break away from the pack and recover my own heartbeat, whenever I am lost in the crowd, and like Debussy's 'Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun' my pulse on its own stands wobbly and inquisitive at first, wishing for the comfort of the soft blankets left behind, and gathering my strength with the first light to see myself through to some incidental rhythm which might pick me up and love me a little and carry me, not unlike a waltz, a Kachaturian favorite at the Bolshoi Ballet, anything that begins to throb and push my blood out for more, more, more... 'cause what we have here is not enough, my friend, not enough at all to justify the effort life demands, no, to go on living requires an advancement of faith sometimes, a personal loan of decisive courage written off an account in arrears, I mean therefore a great risk of sorts only could be taken by a fool or someone who cannot fail. And that would be me, dear sir, enfathomed in the stabilizing clay of primordial pockets, ready to be fired and glazed, a modern day rockstar sold out to the streets and kicked by a label, stretched to the capillaries on short supply of sanity, appeal in the curiosity of all that's gone wrong when dipped in the culture, coming out bold print with a comic sans striation. A modern day American girl with a penchant for obscurity and woven matte finish regalia. Loving you, loving life and ready for anything. Turning to old masters when I don't have a clue, songs from the cemetery when there's nothing better to do, yes, punching up the pulse to a lively arpeggio, ascending off a decline and here I sign.  - KatYa

Journal # 06.26.2016

Tonight I seem to have lost a year but it doesn't matter, time is fluid showers over us, slanting down shoulder blades, slips between fingers, in and out of endless divots the fabric of pores, circles the drain and away, guided by threads and spinning. Tonight I am petulant, a tenured professor, setting myself up against impossible deadlines, racking my brains and then breaking. Tonight I am quiet going about my weekend, on the steps of the back porch platformed above the backyard below sky, listening to catfights, a solo calling bird, waiting for dawn and the burgeoning rush of highways, the streaming of sound, faraway, trying to trust, outdoors. Tonight I could be any old brick of clay, unformed and pulled from plastic, rather drab and uniform yet gleaming somehow from the inside out, on a table of hardwood in the center of a studio... with so much promise I could only walk away from myself disturbed, hands suffering and unoccupied, clasping one another in desperation. Tonight I am insatiable as moving water, thirsty as a life behind bars, free from all resentment not worrying about the future, schizophrenic, I could dive into the fabric and bury us there. This early morning time exposure of lightening, geese in arrows across the sky, ducks regimented walking to water. Find me disoriented as usual, unable to fall in line, unwilling to surrender, drumming up another battle, steeled against this order... this morning I make my own cadence, lucky as hell, restless like Cassius Clay, on my toes, laced up, face down in this adventure, counting seams, watching the canvas of the earth receive and genuflect, feeling the sensuous tension, riveted into play, feeling the sweat bead up and draw watermarks... dropping my head back to see stars. and god it was bright i saw stars.  -KatYa

using your keyboard like a piano (video)

About the ways in which I find the keyboard to be similar to a musical instrument, and useful to setup rhythms which are beneficial to the creative process and writing specifically. 

 Hope this is helpful      xxx     KatYa

you could be your own nightmare part - i

She found her knowing when tabbing through cerebellum's internal ledger. Frontal cortex set for auto-pager alerts. She envisioned a world she knew would never be. Those who disagree would be free to disagree. How fascinating the freedom was, to this world's masses. They witnessed it like men in night clubs witness ladies asses. Even in this world you could be your own nightmare. Learn about apathy, how not to care. Fill with negativity like a car up on gas. Suck up to the deacon, attend every mass. Learn to revere the most ass kissing fascists....

 She saw how her world could go way out to lunch.
She saw with eyes open her very best of intentions?  Could lead her off.
Beyond her wildest extension.
This caused her anxiety; she manifested tension.
The knowing she knew, was not playing.

She decided she must stand with her believers.
Or whatever you wanna call those who disagree with disagree-ers.

original reading - 'message in a stare'

Sacred. Holy. One week to press

with the weight of a half thousand years
i confess
so many months deluged with so many hundred tears
will we find our way home
or the renaissance of our fears?

half of no one really cares or cares
to think about her
that girl who left her bike locked to the school bike rack
yesterday. helmet like a cradle still
hanging from the lock.
fifteen & this young american life
came to kick - and then a
stand still.

Don't get me started. Cause i understand the pain. I feel it tonight just worse than ever. I am tired. Half insane. Weary men and women listen! Cause we are here. Well, some of y'all will listen-- those who have enough left to hear. And other unidentified walking objects get a shout out. Dripping off the gate like morning dew. Cradled by the wind. Back to source through the air. Message in a stare.

Like those before us, we shall be tracked by tracking systems until we can be tracked no more. Then we are lost or free. or both, if both may be... just not downgraded to immobile media coverage task. Just not downloaded. Not forced into play. Just not packaged with advertisements. God help us that we not be, no way.

No time for us to be distracted, to be distracted eats up time. Take your files and get in line, steady forward to the task. Every sector in the urban 50 mile sprawl must be covered, just in case they ask. The year might be 2027. Or it may as well have been. So far gone and yet far ahead of them. We meet in present time, of course, in future time united. By spirits of our past, energetically protected.

The pharmacological solution for weariness is just to reach market! Her derivatives non-narcotic, uncontrolled solution. Spirits, triple variables, this is the scenario! One constant holding ground like an anchor pressed into the seafloor, forever, into dissolution. Reunification with source spells the end of all fragmentation: the death knell of pollution!

Source is sacred. Spiritual energy. Anchored in the message. Means running around in circles searching and searching no more. No longer feeling lonely, but going out with courage. Encouraged! Where loneliness gets discouraged. Where death cannot flourish. Keep moving! Dropping to the hardwood floor. Dripping your feelings fast between planks. 

Bye bye to Loneliness. Its confidence tanks. Its global toxicity becomes local then less. Human duplicity fades away, falling between the spokes of true unitive success. Girl, the world aint pretty when you're all fragments. Its sharp and cuts us something terrible. by means agonizing. Tragically meant. Self-inflicted. Self-dealt. Other-played. Universally-felt.

Our world she gets broken apart, polluted and cut into, whether or not we or you think it's a sin to. Then she's swirled together like Missouri, Joplin weather. Disconsonant elements, mashed through and through.

Sacred if you accept it, if you will

through and through

Turns black to red to blue and back to black again

like a dragon tattoo

The flavor like white stripes to

detroit heights. Up to the upper peninsula!

Hike and hike your skirt, and plant your self directly in the maelstrom

In the center of the maelstrom of your life

Where

we may feel

the luxury of the life

through

the message

in

a stare.

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.

recipe #867.5309

recipe  # 867.5309

chord progression
for your cream base
walking the fretboard
ten pace
in the mind

we played guitar
on indian rocks beach
Jack Kerouac's home
not far
out of reach

got loud enough there
to drown out the culture
the shock and the awe
the commercialism
vulture

the iguanas in the trees
looked down and listened
through ear holes in reptilian
nuclear brain fission

i smoked a joint
back then to get away

rhythm and choose
what clothes and
got laid

trouble was tuning
young turtles at night
they walked the wrong way

towards the street
light

i may have walked backward
as well

wore my clothes
inside out
the sea didn't care
churning about

life was
swell

eyelids fallen like my guard (renewed -ii)

 Part II... of  renewed (completed 2/6/2012)

Guess i spoke up finally... and got startled by the sound of myself speaking. Why did I have to not be completely real? Well, I did not live under any dictate of authenticity. No dictate, no reprobate. Only self-sacrifice leading to pitiful sacrilege of self-hate. No one told me not to be real. But there is this pressure here, see? Pressure of loveless woebegotten punk ass you know fuckin who: punk ass competition.

I felt suffocated. Well, on this day in particular. Yes. You could call it an anomaly..the course of a few months of mainly predominant silence erupting from the chambers of my vox. I was not but felt pushed in from all around. Prod my vox box, for sound. I was surprised constantly by these affairs, surprised by irrational expectation. My childhood was magical, or so i remember.

Surrounded but not by caring faces of my old neighborhood, if that ever existed. Long distance memory or else I made it up. Hard to tell anymore. No one could doublecheck the facts with me. I am not some fucking twin, okay. And even if i were... even if i were.

Yeah. Magical that was. Magical this was not. When I let my vox up to the notch at the top of my throat, just basically facing and ready to approach the greater light that was both tangible real and warm. Sure I expected to see them again, the helpful compassionate animated faces. But no, not really. They did not so much appear, and I was not so much paranoid though possibly a little bit so. I wish I could honestly tell ya it was paranoia. Internal.

I found myself, not side by side holding hands with others, no, but walking in single zerofile formation, alone half the time in my filament of a head.  Thoughts racing...or pulled into some magnet. Then all became less material, more of a virtual feed. Got fed so quick, I could hardly catch up! Surround sound positioned to push me in then out, out, out to you.

Whatever i missed, well,  i never saw at all. Okay? Cannot report upon the specters down the hall. I won't guarantee nothing. Anyway, its unnecessary to care. All this happenstance was long on incredulous, short of meaning, in the end.

 Less static in the attic but no way to control the controls. Detangler unavailable for the tangles tangled up in the armchairs in the waiting room waiting. Come back tomorrow and reschedule. No reason to mention why. They want automatic? Tangled up in a knotty wish-u-were-a-weave! and refused to leave.

K.Drama by K

So i did what i was told, to be precise. No room to throw nobody off.
I fuckin' faded my style. Turned easy lush wall to wall (carpeting), into stained mandala glass tiles.
Not only to diss the blockade. But also to no longer agitate the tiles. Each mandala in its own expressive way,  expressed just exactly how being sidelined for a while felt like a fucking eternity! I got some abuse. I took it, yeah. This was the event subsequently referred to as the mandala holla.

Cut to the floor, my whole style was... all my asides and sudden escalator slides...cascades... escalades away in spinning fours....no longer suspended at all, except within the greater whole of cadillac so naturally resonant suspension. I thought I lost them off the the production line? Not one at a time but in multiples of 3,4,5 rolling off, like capital rolling off the edges of some horrific Madoff scamtable turning fraudulent yellow every minute a little more, then criminally bleached out into some white collar wine cellar parabolic! Underneath American through and through, dead yellow like ole yeller.

I knew i lost them there into the new restrained freedom of a greater yet still fully-contained world. Like a pen into a pen. Freedom for thought, he thought, until senses slapped him around and broke thought into a  bunch of wild ideas and presuppositions. Judgments waiting at the terminal. Waiting, posing in all sort of sophisticated statuesque Rodin type manners. Hastily wrapped up nice & given away in new annual leatherbound planners.

Well, the damndest of things. The restless of matters. My head, you see, i thought i lost you, too. There within my dome, between my dual ears, yes ma'am and yes sir, i did. I thought i lost you, too. Fuck how i am sorry.
But somehow you hung in there with your heart up against my beat, i noticed. I always had you for a witness. So you sewed together my image, backed by labels. The edge fell off my albums, but you sharpened those dull moments.
 I thought i fell off yesterday, wow. But thank you, you, 
You held out  -- to me --  tomorrow...

But thats really some kinda happy neverending. Back to my reality... they caught me, took their measurements, stretched me out thin, to my last track. They took what they could, to the end of my limits bled and scraped me dry. Sign a contract thats your life. They had me out on nothing nice. Thin ice.

 Lost my wide stare knowing. They had me. Glossy and matte, ego swollen and showing. Fooled by the promise. The suggestion they gave to trust them. Or was this conjured up? Had I let up on my controls? Momentary carelessness. Or was it yearning to not despair of trust? All the questions, all the answers. More stuff really, to deal with. Wrote it down, then lost my notebook.

When tired, you taught me, take an vodka tonic to your chair.
 Drink. Sit there. Until time become transparent like the liquor.
To relief. To feel religious. Climbing high above what standard what ever sliding standard slip.
Then take one step firm, then another. Into cool, oxygenated air.
 Filling the eyelids fallen like my guard.

Now they kick into my sides to burning! Ohh! They take me up and over drive. I believe they believe in me, I'm so very fucking alive! I let go of all misunderstandings; make trivial of true. Anything i might argue, gets fast intimidation in my head. I trip on me, my burdensome insecurities in outrage. Their currency is my gold standard. Decision. I let them get a lock on me...Derision.

 I suffer headaches. Tension too thick to mention. You know. I know We all know. I know we all know  what is about to happen: their sentiments left touching in thin air... that original, firm, comforting handshake they had? trails into some second hand see ya later lead into some cold, late, lonely night pin cushion never to return.
                   
you, too, would have left it that way.... like i had to ... let it go...like i
     did
you would have had me leave it like that,
up & walk away, wouldn't you?

before you
found and held
and loved the fuckin
hell out of me
mercilessly

to the expense
 of my breath
of my lungs

pressing me
pressing me out all whole again
in the end

goddamn i miss you 
goddamn