morning hustle

this morning they are hoping for some change standing outside the seven elevens the circle k's the am pm's, shifting and huddled and made it through the night. maybe a coffee and a biscuit if you can. a word or a sign or a forlorn face to get a couple quarters. sometimes a hard silence and barefoot says enough. a little kid who cares asks his mommy can we help that one over there? some small gratitude, hot liquid behind paper, warms the hands and face, expressions melt into a blank stare. worries momentarily at bay. eyes open to the day. find your hustle or your doomed. 

Journal # 08.07.16

Quentin he was out on the porch which corners mine, when I went to call for the kids. A few long and lingering whistles is all. I'm sure he's heard me calling many a night before. There's really no need to explain myself which is one of the luxuries of being neighbors. Quentin and I have never met until now. He's pale and stout and dark, and well-spoken, and I have never seen him standing up. He grew up here. He just moved back from Palm Desert or Springs, not sure which. I have a faint interest in Southern California. He tells me the sudden rise of mountains there give a false sense of security and he liked living there, the people were kind.

Seems to me in one month every single apartment next door has turned over, but I could be wrong. I know two of four have. I liked some of the kids who left (and they were all kids), but I don't mind the turnover. Keeps life interesting. Q (he said I can call him Q) is too hungover to make an interview, he says, and puts out his cigarette, picks up his cell phone and calls it off. Some people would never do that. It takes guts to call off an interview. I like him already.

Aside The action won't always be yours. The sidelines are waiting and you will make an interesting cheerleader what with your inflexibility, Einstein. Bicycles resting against one another on the walls. Saturday nights that never end. Distant signals and lone sirens and crossings. Flagpoles without flags. Broken glass gleaming in the streets. A bend in a hose that stopped the water in its pressured tracks. The threads of the faucet are getting wet under the back pressure. I think there are five colors to any head of hair. Two primary, three subtle, and I'd rather not throw it in your face. It is early Sunday morning, after all, and half of you will get a preaching, and half of those won't be in safety of church.

there won't be any weekend

I know it's saturday but there won't be any weekend, I promised, the pulse will count out the same in sixty seconds and I cannot live any other way; I am anti-heroic when it comes to arresting the life in me. I can slow my breath to a near standstill and hibernate on a couch with a cell phone texting emoticons to god through t-mobile, torturing myself with online validation. I don't have an avatar. This wild child of atari is fresh out of excuses for joysticking the halfway living. I cannot even cry about the sad stuff, unless it's yours, cause the sad life is long gone and even if it kills me I promised to fulfill these dreams if only in the making.

There won't be any time off, nahahna, I used all my PTO, all my floating holidays, all my sick days and all my fuckin vacay, distributed through the twenties and thirties, the dopamine bordering on bottoming out. Hell, I had my glory nights of indulgence and days of despair. You probably see it in my eyes. Now the fire comes from within and I am home! So there won't be any weekend just a shot of cream into coffee, on a table turning. Lemme in the mix. Scratch me. Spin me. Put me in play. I can give you what you need. Saturday night seems fluid and I love to work it out with you like this.  --Katya © 2016

saturday. am

The carpets were thick and we moved quietly about the house. We met in the middle and held hands. The cartoons were moving pictures around the screen, blacks and oranges and purples, a latchkey kid lost in visions. Church was all tomorrows and the grasses were not so uniform if you were hiding in them looking. The flapjacks were thick and we moved quietly about house. We met in the middle and wiggled our toes. The leaves on the trees were patching final shadows before they fell, which was sad if you thought about it, but if you focused on the colors it was gorgeous. The walls broke out in patchy spots and we moved quietly about. I did not have to dream about you when you were real.

saturdays in september (3 takes)

In september a saturday in the USA might be full of surprises, you see, the kids wake up to no school and that makes them especially happy, the husbands of wives sometimes are the same, excited for the long-awaited football game, and the mothers may be busy in the kitchen all morning, of course i am talking in a very conventional sense of roles... what i ask makes it so uncomfortable these days to speak of convention like so? i would hit the delete key and hold that puppy down and gone all the words they would go. 

In september a saturday for vitamin K in the USA ... work, coffee, weekend begins after dawn, feeling quite free, friends, rest, river, cooking, reading, bicycling, sun in the backyard watching cats and birds and squirrels, running, cycling, walking, writing, reading, thinking, resting, coffee, meds, phone calls, making videos, listening to jazz or classical or am radio, highlights of the scores of the games going on, netflix, cooking, thinking, writing, walking to the store, driving somewhere, meditating, anywhere, reading aloud to a friend. 

In september a saturday in the USA might be just another day, you have to go to work because you need to get paid, the kids must be tracked down by someone, where are they? they did not come home last night, their bedroom and clothes smell of marijuana you suppose, and your partner lays in bed doing nothing... i guess you can microwave some oatmeal, let's see, everything so cleverly processed, everything so rainbow, so LGBT. You can take a handful of vitamins or norcos on coffee, anything to find some relief from the tension of trying to make the ends meet. 

Journal # 03.14.15

When I go to the ocean in an emotional state, she levels me. Hyperventilating after the nightmares. The water and salt in the breeze. Inhale. The day begins in an unusual way. Deeper. Look into the fog. The many gradations of white light, rising. Soon to see the horizon. The crow's feet soften and dissipate around the eyes. Calm. My thoughts fall into the sound of the waves curling into the shore. I can walk away. Sustained. I can meet someone. Excited. I can see you again. The way you were to me once. You notice the change over coffee, and are surprised. You get up and motion for me to arise. I hold you in my heart. Anything else was all lies.You hold me in your arms and in your eyes.