in the fog

late at night

they come 

they travel down mountainsides

within water molecules 

by gravity

then rise up off the grassy banks 

as condensation to hover

low over the city 

the full moon witnesses

the harvest. the lost 

souls

#katyamills

spirit plasticity

immortal again our spirits ascended

having circled the drain for years inside the human body

had we only remembered the future

we would have long ago wished

we were dead

#katyamills

apodictic

barely time to daydream

like usual when you edged 

into my office out of sorts 

to betray logic and reason

the strangest thing

it was like someone was 

there... my blood raced 

to believe our dearest comrade

she returned! 

#katyamills

spirits

the spirits. in the spaces between
 apart and far from
 hemmed in

 they sway in unison
with and out of synch
 then

pressure to force it came upon the fooled
and forgotten

the spirits. they swayed in the fields
like tomorrow as was
yesterday

let us walk

religion was boy or girl and binary. this way or that. nothing in between. i was tomboy. i had a spirit. they wanted to catch it in butterfly nets. jar and jam. you were hard and wonderful. not like other girls. let's go get lost together. and we did.

y.

many of the people the world has written off for dull have the brightest spirits, and shine
out from the dark places where their bodies have been relegated

after dark

after all the candles shed their wicks and treats give in to tricks, after all the families tuck away the costumes, end of play, after lights out and halloween is set aside... then the true demons show, sanity takes flight... with ghosts over cobblestone they glide

casting Madison Avenue fishbowl eyes

Our spirits, in the spaces between and apart and far from, are yet to be hemmed in, anyway, they sway in unison with and out of synch then, consonance and dissonance together holding hands, not necessarily about coming together by choice, some were forces above and beyond our bell curved comprehension, and more out of synch are the spirits with the reeds with the grasses with the grains. Ceres. Above overlooking the whole operation, downtown Chicago, casting Madison Avenue fishbowl eyes... against the grain as pressures come to bear in our espresso machines in our offices in our relationships in our lives.

in my twenties and thirties

i was the kind who got kicked out of bars for mouthing off, demanding attention, who wandered off and misplaced myself in different American cities, found myself thirsty, dazed and alone some afternoons, in alleyways woke by the sun, after nights i would rather have forgotten but stand in my memory still ... yet i could always find refuge in the nearest public library or local reading room where the silence could be so loud, you could even hear fingertips striking keystrokes to the tune of the turning of pages, and there in the warmth of centuries of collective wisdom could i manage to wonder how am i alive? there must be a God or the spirits of my predecessors looking out for me, i am so blessed and cursed, i am ... my twenties and thirties were absurd at times, my natural privilege did not always work for me because i convinced myself i oughta earn anything. of course i held a job down most of the time and was responsible about rent and stayed mostly out of jail. i was neither thief nor leech on to another's good fortune; i mean i made and paid my own way. i was often in a relationship. i thought i was in love a couple of times but in the end i wouldn't work for it, i wouldn't make the sacrifices and maybe, just maybe, i did not want to be loved. i was critically self-centered and bursting with pride as i walked solemnly toward my next humiliation. i think i wanted to be punished. back then, i was not interested in god.

Shine cafe in Sacramento. photo by K

prefab ona freeway

I was driving up the grapevine out of los angeles when traffic came to a dead stop, near the top. we were all clocking about 80 miles an hour before it turned into a parking lot. ahead of me was a prefab house tipped off a truck bed on the freeway.  i wanted to stop and give the poor trucker the down on his lucker, a hug. he likely lost his job today. maybe they will let him move his family into the new lot he created. rent should be nothing if he sets it up for some tolls, his kids can take turns in the booth making change. governor jerry brown can stop in for dinner once a month and his cut. sure they will have to soundproof the walls and string up some blinking lights. no back yard and no neighbors and the air quality will suffer from the constant emissions. none of it will be legal but they'll be roping so much cash they can buy the courts off. the only great obstacle will be the haunting. the ghost of the family who once lived where the freeway now runs had something to do with this, for sure, a spiritual reclamation of material space. a frontier family gone west and staked a claim long ago. only to be ousted by the D.O.T. commission lobbied hard by big business. no more day hikes to pyramid lake. no more immaculate alta vistas. just a small payoff and a bus to LA, and a new life sucking fumes in carson city. the patriarch promised vengeance. he was the one, long long forgotten, who jumped the trucker's nerves and caused him to jack knife that day. the matriarch got ahold of his wife. you can see the translucence deep into the night when you drive up there and wait for your toll. the kids are all demons possessed.

Journal # 05.04.15

The eye of the moon dimmed the stars and scrutinized the city. The empaths locked in battle with the analysts. Politicians raising funds. Water going scarce. Iron lungs. The next generation of pharmaceuticals would cost a pretty penny, and everyone would pay. The kids endlessly vaping. Girls the boys were draping. Prisoners developing patience in lieu of blueprints for escaping. Time would spill us all out on to the streets. The full moon saw through it all. I stepped out upon the back porch, by the light, where the spiders had their feast at night. The clouds were rushing down into the ground without a sound. I locked my gaze upon the moon. I gave it time to reflect. The clouds were rushing through the yards and toward me. Trying to save the land! I whistled and my cats came zipping, out of nowhere, up the stairs and to safety. I stepped inside as the clouds were billowing upwards to the door. I threw the door into the wall, and whisps of vapors curled out the edges and fell solemnly to ground, unseen. I drew the curtains and said my prayers. My energy was churning and yearning for release. I did not dare step out into the night again. No. Something was off about it all. This full moon did not feel right. Dangerous. I hardly trusted myself. Part of me wanted to Keith Moon my apartment. I wanted to tear the devil to shreds! No. Slow down, kid. A voice of reason filled my ears. Outside the moon was searching and searching the city for life. I was better off alone. Turn off the phone. Let go of recent history. Disperse the probing eye of the moon by candlelight. Call upon any spirits near or far. Help me! Help me make it through this night, intact. Then rewarded be, with a key, cut to the lock upon my heart, exact.

Journal # 03.04.15

Wednesday. Subtle forms passing through. The migration of shadow figures towards the darker side of the earth. They cannot stand the light. Some were resting in my closet. You might call it hiding, but it was after dark and nothing to hide from. I tend to keep my apartment light enough to see, dark enough to hold a mystery. I was blending some wild blueberries in the kitchen, and accidentally caught some stray entity in my smoothie. This misfortune was allayed by the wonderful taste and texture of subtle form.
 GOODREADS GIVEAWAY! 
I drank the blue potion and watched the shadow play in the closet. I sat down on my couch, took a deep breath and waited for the sound of the water boiling. My hands ran across my denim knees. The steam began to whistle through the spout. My tongue, blueberry blue. A sudden remarkable insight arrived, at the bottom of my wild blueberry potion. I can call on my family for encouragement. For help. I can literally pick up the phone and call my mom or my dad or my brother or my aunt or my cousin, not for anything other than to feel the connection. The blood rights. The raison d'etre. A lucky one, am I...