how it came to be

our exultations 

they condemned 

reducing it to fantasies ailments 

lapses of reason

sidelong they watched us

devoid of curiosity

in sworn secrecy we traveled 

to the chosen clearing 

beneath the city

only to be seen 

only to be known 

only to be free

#katyamills

emergenc.y

my thoughts spoke for themselves my
 feelings could scarcely be
contained

anytime of triumph of the spirit
looked rather sloppy and
unsophisticated

photo by katya

4

4 were the ways

got us across the days

unscathed

4 were the winds

altogether kept us

centered

4 were the fires

could not be

extinguished

4 were the reaches

at the ends of

the earth

2 times

did i call out

to you

2 circles

overlapped

the birds 

upon the wire

they fell

took flight

and

the sky

the sky

the sky

water

pattaya 2007

I remember when I looked emaciated like those boys trapped on Pattaya beach in the Thai cave licking the limestone walls. My life driven by anger and fear took me there in my twenties and again in my thirties. I was in certain darkness and could not get out. My heartbeat slowed by pulses of heat and  flashes of pain. I was so lonely and surrounded by loners like me. I thought it was me against the world, and it was. Me against the world and me against myself. You cannot live long that way, and you cannot live that stance forever. Some die young. I had to make a full turn. I was wounded needing love. I was hateful needing peace. Fire needing water. Impulsive needing patience. Selfish needing out. Needing meaning, needing work. Needing a meaningful relationship to myself and others. A devotion to a spiritually seeded cause. All life is like mine. I had to humble myself and see the universe in me. Cool my jets and stop taking off, running away. Stay. I had to stay and breathe into it. All life can be renewed. All life is like that, yours and mine, all life is valuable. We need you.

whatever makes you

flash your teeth and
shiny medals
show off your stuff
i don't mind

i like to see you
happy

Journal # 02.27.15

Friday. Hope comes in funny forms. Losing the idea of a maid. Grabbing a broom and a mop. The mind fascinates when running or riding the bike. Oh the visions I have. The heart pumps harder, oxygen goes to the head. All ennui falls out the window. The sun, after a few days obscured, becomes a delight. The skin opens up its pores like a flower opens petals. Some rain in a drought may just do the same. And then the dreaded phone rings. And yes, the dreaded phone alerts. The dreaded alarm. Or the dreaded quiet, dark, descent into nightmares. No. Dear friend. This is not the end. Waking after a little hellish torment, is always so much brighter to be free. Take your bones for a walk and to dinner. Propose yourself a plan to make that dream come alive. Hold on to the blueprints, laminate them, plaster them on the walls of your mind. Then get to work. Keep the spirited sense of urgency! And when the fruits fall and are not anyone's delight? When the fruits fall and rot on the ground? There, there. This is not your concern. Keep taking sun and rain! Do not be sad for long. Let the fruits die. Another harvest is soon and sure to come! Keep giving yourself over to your passion. With urgency now, my dear, with urgency. I see you! You are a big part of this.

be chosen

the rain
the rain she
wash away
the pain

the pain
the pain she
left us
alive!

a calm
the calm she
settles
over all

the lights
go down
the sun
unknown

we can
once again

think
feel
see!

we can
we can twice
remember

we can
three times
in loving
devotion

thawed out
unfrozen
choose to be
chosen

K reads... 'like thunder' (original non-fiction)

'like thunder'

posted on K IS SILENT

July, 2013

All my world had puffed up like a blowfish around me, then blew a massive hole in the ocean. Like those bastards, BP. I came out like Jonah from the belly of the whale. I had found those goddamn roadflares from my truck. The ones I never had when I needed them, stranded with my hazards on halfway down an exit ramp off the great highway. Well, I took advantage of my luck. The moment the clouds gave way to the sky. I struck a match off the heel of my boot, and lit those mothers. Without hesitation. That’s when the whole thing blew wide open. Pretty close to the time the world was supposed to end, again. The impact left ink trails falling all around you and me. Poisoning my ecosystem and yours, too, for a little while. Until the great ocean diluted and detoxified, and cleaned up my mess. So life could go on again, uninterrupted. I’m sorry. I can tell you I am sorry today and I mean it. I thought about it for a long while. Days upon days, actually. There was hardly nothing to do. I had taken my usefulness out of me. Fell asleep on the couch in the dead heat of the day. My kittens stretched out wishing their fur away. The television was on. The television was off. My hold on reality was tenuous. I lost a cat out there. Just like I lost one a decade earlier. I lost alot more, backsliding and sliding. Everything I tried to communicate seemed to come out all encrypted. The more I plugged in passwords and master passwords, the less safe I felt. Probably no one but my ex-boyfriend really truly wanted me dead. But I guarded what was left of me, with all that I could. The nightmares cascaded, if I fell asleep in the silence. Only the ceiling fan spinning far above us. The Tibetan bell I hung off the light fixture was ringing ever so softly beside me and my broken ankle bracelet hanging off of me. 

When I could breathe again. When I could read again. When I could look you in the eyes again. That’s when I noticed. When I no longer wanted light, but got lit anyway. I picked up the kittens and kissed them many times. Their bodies hung limp from the palms of my hands. They trusted me so well, they could drip off my arms and melt into the air. My heart melted inside me, over this. The trust, I mean. What a fucking gift. I carried them and myself down the hall to the bedroom. Many times, every day. My eyes half burned out from so many moons and full suns. I can feel my age. The surface temperature of my skin seems to have elevated, substantially. My head aches, and my belly grows. The infertility is juxtaposed. My imagination was seen as a dove by a merchant marine long out at sea. Coming home. My spirit is the delta. The heat of the day seems to linger all night there. My kittens cannot stand to drape over me for too long. They want to. But my body, their fur, well, it’s all much too warm. All my world had puffed up, you see, an inflammation of my soul. And this wasn’t gonna let up so easy this time. Not this time. I had done alot of damage, now. I had painted over the woodwork. Restoration was a bitch. All those relationships I chose, over the relationship I most needed. Let me tell you, it is good to live alone. I hope to stretch time out into solitude. With a steady stream of social media from which to drink. With a world outside my windows waiting for me, when I cannot think. I lost alot by losing myself all the time like that. This was okay, to be worn out and all. I could remember the past, I could tell you the truth some day. But the conscious bold type is screaming grade A psychotic. Still fresh. I think it only right to be humble and patient, not slough the old skin any faster than it wants to. Not so much, but maybe a little at a time. Maybe a little like now. I am not afraid, but rather listening to my truth all alone like I should. And it’s telling me things. Important things. Nuances. Sometimes painful like hell, sometimes touching me so deep. I am so sensitive. I hurt alot. I suffer, but not always in silence anymore. I cry alot, but without shedding tears. A lot less drama. The explosion was necessary. A spiritual emergency. The difference now is the break. Allowing things to shift a little. So I can safely think. So the ecosystem can take a little ink. So I can go out and buy my rice and pasta and fry up my corn tortillas in olive oil, while the green beans are roasting, Indonesian Sumatra. My life is a blessing. Any way that it goes. My choices fall in succession, in rows after rows . The holy temple of my spirit, was always with me and protected. This was my saving grace. She almost got ground out with my Newports, under my heels. I often tried to extinguish her. But I have so much to offer, like they say. I could open a fucking restaurant and offer all day. Anyway. The moon, she is waxing, and the darkness fills around her. I can see it, feel it, know it, be it. The substance, the system, the whole damn thing rides on spoke balanced wheels. I roll them twelve miles, as I get to know myself again. I roll those wheels and the flame delivers like magic, between my forefinger and thumb. My sweet kittens, four brown eyes, two on either side, watch in wonder. In wonder.My verse drops my spirit, like thunder. Like thunder.

the girl whose temples -iv)

Irregardless of age, race, creed, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, ability, disability, awake, asleep, dreaming, fantasizing. Life was almost unbearable for her now. Irregardless of age, time, potential, history, or conscious presence. Irregardless of proprioceptive superstandard socialscapes and escapes.

Suck the colors out and it’s a fact. Thank god she could see it for what it was, almost unbearable but not. Or don’t thank god or anyone. Whenever she came to the crux of a decision to live or die, the choice was easy. Live. Experiment. Play with options. Do it differently, with no expectations. Except to suffer still. To love a lot. To feel a lot. To have a hamster in a wheel in her head who never stopped running. What an experiment! She put on her labcoat and stockings and sexy swag fitted label eyewear, her rose-colored lenses, and found her thirst for life. Yes, another day would come to pass of misinterpretation of her. Accepting it, sidelining all that crap, going back to the lab, had to be her undeniable satisfaction.

In a world that could offer little solace through bloodlines.
In a town that courted all its layman judges.
Citizens arrest. Unwelcomeness.
On a path that led to no known end.

The silence and her favorite drink, the feelings she did or did not feel, the strange form she took getting bigger herself every day as they tried to make her small by cruelties they inflicted or unkind words they would say, those around her... what influence had they? Maybe some. Maybe alot. But she tried to appreciate the ongoing evolution of her self. In trying she was almost able. And she tried to appreciate her only known given life almost as much as she could... and almost, she could.

 In subsidiary was the account of the days of her youth... through a precipitation of all things heretoformentioned and avowed... through the fallen rain of colored locks of hair... through which all ugly jaundiced countenances saw to the unconditional freeze of her powerful icy stare...in this antiquated world of salons and sociopolitical theatrics of penelopes and patricks...of bulbs bare and loud enough to make the head ache...until a dull scream fell out of some poor child’s mother’s spleen. Or so somebody said. Fell out and fell down on the ground with a thud. Like an ice cream cone scoop of dark semisweet chocolate. Insensate.

 She would not rub her temples then. Postmortem.
 She would have.
She could not rub her temples then.
She would have if she could have.
She did not rub her temples because someone else.
Someone else knew.
Someone else knew what she would not do.
Someone else knew that she could not do but would have if she could have.

 Someone else rubbed our friends temples with a fullness. A fullness that cannot come of judgment or jaundice or class action. A full indescribable spontaneous burst of parenthetically deserted straight up true natural overflowing...some semisweet one got her back.

notarize the thighs -iv)

You became at that moment - for something. What a relief. Even if you were not exactly sure what you were for, anyone could tell you were for something. By your healthy pulse and that certain laser light, in your eyes. You would be one of those walk-ons in a method acting audition, who couldn't act your way out of a bag, but whom, without a single line spoken, got the part. Cause of the way you carried yourself, of course. Props to Marlon Brando and Tennessee Williams. Props to Faye Dunaway and Charles Bukowski. Props to an effortless way of being. Props to the effort behind it. Props to you. For the je ne sais quoi. Your vox accompli.

Gone are the days in the margins, barely alive. Still a loner, but no longer alone. A non-subscriber, but only by choice.  A subscriber for certain to your own gliding voice.

Throw out the bricks and mortar old rolodex situation. With the tinted glass cover and the black plastic foundation. With the earmarks from contacts you once had relied on. In a corporate scenario that paid real damn well. Welcome to owning your own ebullient label. The style is touching, though the earnings? unstable.  Welcome to endless contacts who you have not yet met. There will be no more rolodex and no more personal jet or jet-set.

No need to monitor some worked up fabrication, to keep you employed in some unforgiving niche. But you may have to pull a Rod Stewart, and start your wave digging ditches. Those who dare not to step out the parameters set for them, are worth all your compassion and benevolence. No doubt. But never look back for too long. Amassed is an archive so full of the evidence, of what happens when the spirit is packed up and stored in the attic. Or firewalled off from your heart, until it hits static.

Not a pretty picture, the motionless scene. Of the spirit once blazing, now lounging. In limousine. With a whiskey and water, and lips wet with saying; some day it will happen, some day maybe soon. Some day I am sure, and maybe next June. Some day, and now pass me the map to the treasure. I am almost halfway there, and at my own leisure.

You and me, we are different. It's quite a dialectic! There's nothing to demeaning or ill-willed coming from us, we wish all the best of each of us, always. But some can relate to another so well, you just start communicating and fall under a spell. Your spirit informs you all the way up through your chakras. The moment we meet becomes an instagram memory. We cannot privatize our sense of fellowship. The generosity of spirits aligned in a moment. Captured true and irrevocable. Outside of time, space, locus, place. Defies x,y and z axes. All around us fades to gray, for a second. In the flash of a conducted energy across the impenetrable body armor. The primal scream is released. Props to Reich and to Tesla, and the Orgone Accumulator. Props to spiritism and its history, quite alive through the centuries. Like a redwood rising above all the mundanity deluxism.

Take the lux out, and there! The je ne sais quoi. Notarize the thighs, but don't break the law. Just live like you're living, whether homeless or funded, keep giving! That's all. We are the ones who come so far to surpass the situation. The whole enchilada of titanium insensate fear-inspired, fear-financed, mass indicated, mass appealed, safety-sealed, moment in time treasured, intricately coded and measured, bureau monitored, otherwise insurmountable, cultural affair.

by Katya Mills, 07/13

Citizen K (subsection D)

Who was this citizen #K ... and who gives a goddamn fuck, anyway? She too would be subject to the necessary scrutiny that any Org under constant threat of infiltration by the enemy required of its members. And yes, this was an exclusive Org. The defense of freedom was no ordinary task. No wafflers allowed. Same to any element unrelated or disinterested in the cause at hand. Background in advertising? See ya later. Witnesses to the revolution? Take a walk. Unless you have that light in your eye, that readiness we demand. No! birdwatchers need not apply. Investment bankers? Brokers? Well come on in, we need the ones who were insiders once and turned away forever. Potential secret weapons. They may know the enemy well! But are they akin to our cause? Come, come, let's talk. Veterans? yes, yes, we most certainly need purveyors and conduits of the imminent asskicking we are to prepare for the corporate slug. The proprietors behind them, shopkeepers and small business mom and pops? Yes yes! You know our pain so succinctly! Come to our table. Please.

Ace of spades carryied the flush. The Org. grew larger and larger in no time at all, despite one of two being turned away at the door. The leaders were many and came into clarity in no time. The others were drawn like magnets being magnetized. Clubs in the back sported diamonds, and threw darts at all the hearts. Half-alpha, half-numeric. Take a letter, take a letter! Oh, did you fail that test? Now you're numbered.

Halfway to her lips. Then citizen #K sang with them what had been held so close inside, close to her heart yet unable to breathe. Before now. Now the passsion spilled out like  the lyrics of economic injustices, bank fraud, white collar allowances and tax cut phobic politicos. Half-baked, her anarcho-socio-cap-in-your-ass-free range capitalism. Confessedly untried and untrue ideologies. Halfway out her shell and barely visible to the world yet, she offered all apologies. Everywhere she went, they locked arms with her. Less confusing, she believed, now there was some locus from which to act and, if necessary, act out.

Citizen K (subsection C)

The expectation was to defend the freedoms otherwise self-evident since the declaration of independence was emblazoned with signatures of the well known freedom fighters of the late eighteenth century, North America. Sadly, not one Native American put ink on this document. Which one could argue, demonstrated the self-evident hypocrisy of the time. Still, the natives would get their due, in time.

Okay. Anything less than complete immersion would be discarded. Anything other than Anarchy in its original form was unacceptable. The stakes were peak. No room for error. Whatever fell outside expectation became detritus, and emptied shells of varied ideas and opinions bore witnes to their having become decidedly nonextant.

The defense of freedoms was weighed down by nothing but its own failing in defending the uninheritable lands and deeds and rights of the native peoples it so subjugated or neglected. Nothing could stop the momentum of the settlers settling. Until centuries later, when a parallel could be drawn between the Indigenous peoples efforts toward reclamation of their history, as it had been often so brutally and intentionally destroyed, and the great Thirst of the 21st century middle class, in its push to hold on to a democratic principle within a capitalist nation under siege by coporate interest, omnipresent.


Said lobby was arguably omnipotent, for it came in interwoven in the fabric of human life and lifestyle. However, it was this exact possibility (presumed not yet achieved) which created the space for an uprising to counter. AKA The defense of freedoms by awakened and courageous defenders of freedom subsequently giving of their time and energy towards the cause, the aforementioned expectation....the defense.

This did not and would not and could not preclude an Offensive! Citizen K held in her heart both a yearning for and precognition of the mass awakening of the middle class, in momentum and movement toward reclamation of freedoms deluged and undermined and in effect stolen from them by conglomerate lobbied interests foreign to them yet immediately impacting their quality of life in diverse yet consistently toxic and unacceptable fashion.

Citizen K (subsection B)

Shadowing herself seemed a nice way to revisit her own capacities. Particularly the ability to map, self[ orient.  Only through her innate abilities, might she return to her natural homeostasis, then produce her beats proper. Still. All this inner work could not be possible unless she maintain her understanding of and parallax with the external truth. The locus, the place. The context in which she might exercise her rights and her powers, judiciously, in the world. All of which required not so much success on any level, but a more tangible, objective criteria...


A level of cash. A measure of cream. A maintenance of the corps vitality. Providence in the form of food and shelter, and, the new element recently introduced to the system (and still vastly misunderstood); nutrient psychopharmaceuticals. She knew about sustenance. She allied with providence. She had only to choose her method. How to proceed. And as the 21st century steamed on, metal theft on your local graveyard shift, USA, began to appeal to her as a means to this very end. Of course, her goal would be metallic reclamation. Not theft. Theft was a sentence they might give her, when they denied the claims. They always denied any existence of source ownership, placing reclamation efforts in jeapordy.



 Yet they themselves introduced nothing, no deed or title, to demonstrate any claim or ownership of the particularly vital material element at stake. This was the vulnerability through which the courageous might enter at great risk of material life, a point whereby the house of cards might be finally named and revealed, thus to take the monoliths down. Proof of insubstantiate cancer polluting our freedoms. Trespassing our rights. Destroying our country's original authenticity. The promised freedoms outlined and secured in the amendments and the constitution itself.

Follows . Nov 2011 post. Citizen K (A)