no.18

 in those years

we fought in earnest

for right and wrong

we hated to think 

the one we loved

could betray us

it was not them it was

our thoughts

#katyamills

#1 thought

12 thoughts
run round my head
i select the very best one 
wrap it carefully in the comics 
we already read
when the moment comes
i will bring it out into the sun
for the trusted special ones 

to uplift them if 

i can

#katyamills

may 9

the thoughts were like 

poison mixed into a moscow

mule and killed the hour

you believed 

them 

#katyamills

b4 u think

broil the salmon 

golden pink

stop the thoughts

before you think

you don't have to feel bad 

about it

anymore

#katyamills

burn the wheels

catastrophic thoughts

churn through my head i

grab the nearest

bicycle and burn the wheels

off the spokes

#katyamills

sugar skulls

inside our sugar skulls

the thoughts hold the key

we mill them with cider

from apples in the tree

#katyamills

dizzy

thoughts. sift through them for the ones will give you strength to face another day. the venom from traumas is pure and lethal. 😵 when dizzy you can sometimes dance but not always

stranger

when on holiday sometimes

it's like i forgot who i am

after all the weeks and months of work

sometimes you need to talk 

or coax yourself out

then appear like a

stranger

#katyamills

faith without works is dead!

Faith without works is dead! within our everyday actions, from the moment we wake up to when we lie down to sleep, we can claim our faith and find freedom in doing so. thoughts and feelings are colored by judgment calls which may or not be accurate. how many times have you made an appraisal only to find out you were dead wrong? and then how you feel about it shifts. feelings are colored by thoughts and thoughts, influenced by how we feel. years can go by being misled, having misconstrued a situation, misunderstanding and being misunderstood! our actions, on the other hand, are tangible, concrete. they cannot lie. what you do is true.

thoughts

have their own life. you cannot tame nor deny them. you can notice them. become aware. go do what you do. let them be. these are only thoughts. they need not hurt you or change or possess you.

14 twelve

in 12 we found fourteen
a chance to come clean
there can be no
hesitation

the thoughts
the feelings
cannot be trusted

go and do what must be done
today is the only
day

glass of broken thought

I wanna ignore some thoughts in my head or top them off a boil and float the bastards away. Tired of telling myself sometimes I'm a loser, I'm no good, I cannot hold a candle to you. I wanna take them out back and twist them dry, but you cannot get water from a stone.

I wanna take the stone cold self antagonist inside me and shatter her through some wall length plate glass window and stand there and watch, and listen until every last fragment and shard falls to ground in a puzzle of unsolved life.

Then listen to my pretty head full of nothing and adorn her with flowers and songs and flashes of light. I will grab a broom and sweep up the pieces of my broken thought. And hang them on a wall.

precipice

There he was, alone in the room. There was the light and him and the dust and the sound of the keys striking, and the strings being struck all alone in the room, and more than a sensation an emotion joined them, he and the light and the keys making chords, the emotion barely registered on his face and one could catch it at the upturned edge of an eyelash, and only for a fraction of a second. Balancing there. Causing the edge to collapse. He promised himself he would not think upon her again. It was not safe.

paradigms and marathons and ezines and more

Activism. I was thinking back on the the Occupy Oakland movement and 2011. Brought on by one of Lacey Reah's threads about MLK and demonstrations. I don't always feel like revisiting the year, the time, because I was in trouble and of no use to anyone and definitely not a political movement of any kind, yet I remember the buildup one day toward an imminent call-4-action. There had been posters stapled to telephone poles and canvassing all throughout Oakland leading up to it. I was in my apartment watching Democracy Now which was covering the event, and you could already hear the helicopters hovering over downtown. They weren't gonna leave after rush hour was over and the sun went down and the people began heading out on foot, by bicycle, by skateboard, bus, or train to Broadway and designated areas like the 14th and 19th street crosses downtown, subway stops near the lake. The organized protests were to be non-violent, but the city prepared for the worst kinda riot. I'm sure corporate lobbies were strong, what with all the infrastructure and banks and businesses situated there. The media would of course cover it all. The police were mobilized in force, with full gear and helmets and shields all up to make boundary walls that might enclose the protest in a demarcated area. This was many months before the most successful demonstration, which started in the afternoon and marched all the way to the Port of Oakland and blocked the trucks and stopped the million-dollar-a-day commerce from taking place for a couple of days. And after the Oscar Brown injustice, which set off a stream of protests and was (far from the first) precursor to all of the demonstrations we have seen lately in this country against police shootings. It had become a pretty regular thing for the city of Oakland to prepare for these events. Obviously the city is rich in history of demonstrations, being the home of the Black Panthers and neighbor to Berkeley and San Francisco. But the police force by this time was so corrupt and out of sorts it had been federalized, yes, the federal government took the Oakland Police under its jurisdiction by force of court proceedings! So there may have been extra weight behind them in the form of federal funds, but weaker local leadership.

None in the new millenium would get as much media coverage as the Occupy Movement which was of such national interest and concern five years ago. The internet allowed for speedy pop-up shop demonstrations and facile communication. Democracy Now provided almost a central organizing principle to the whole thing, or dressed it into larger, truth and justice-seeking themes. So anyway, what was I doing? Nothing worthwhile mostly struggling and depressed. I remember feeling excited nonetheless because the city was buzzing with tension. What was gonna happen tonight, downtown? All I knew was that I was gonna go, and I said I was gonna go and I never went. The story of my life that year, making plans and not following through. Addiction would have a chokehold on me until February 19th, 2013. Still, I felt like I was there; I talked to friends who went and I walked downtown the next day in the aftermath and saw all the vandalism that took place, mostly by renegade kids from the suburbs wearing masks. Broken storefront windows. Spraypainted everything. The only thing that looked more of a disaster was me and my life. It had been a night to forget for the Oakland PD. National coverage caught the cops implementing their weaponry, you probably saw it on tv. Looked  like the 4th of July, and sounded like war, the noise makers, the usual flares and tear gas and rubber bullets and tasers. It made for a new meaning for when-the-lights-came-up-on-broadway. That night a soldier who had returned from the war in Iraq was put into a coma when he was hit in the head by a flare shot. He would live to tell.

So what of all this? Why would I have anything to say about an event in which I did not participate? In a year in which I was completely broke down and out of commission? I don't know. All I know is the Occupy and the Oscar Grant demonstrations had a great effect on me. The demonstrations against the Prison Industrial Complex did, too, but that one was safe indoors in a school gym. The ones in the streets meant more to me and it's because I was in the streets back then, marginalized and easily dismissed, often desperate for a handout, some food, a couch, or even a word of kindness. Sometimes I think you almost have to be marginalized and feel that way, to really care about those who are marginalized. I say that, but at the same time I pause to recognize it's not a fair statement, because there are plenty of lawyers and journalists and politicians and people who never have been marginalized, who have stood behind the marginalized. We call them heroes. And having been marginalized I know how it feels and I have a real adverse reaction in my gut every time I hear the Occupy Movement dismissed as some disorganized dilute homeless and criminal encampment looking for handouts! It was decentralized (on purpose) and not disorganized at all, and there were all kinds of people and all elements of society represented among its advocates, including the homeless and people with criminal records! It was branded by the government as some kinda terrorist activity so they could use funds from Homeland Security to stop it. And non-violent protesters were treated with shock and force and tear gas canistry, and piggybacked upon by losers from the suburbs putting on masks and coming in by train and breaking corporate storefront windows and spraypainting crap all over! The media at first blamed the violent response on the Occupy protesters or smudged them all together, though to their credit many journalists properly admonished the City of Oakland for terrorizing the movement, injuring civilians and overuse of force once they saw the Occupy people out there scrubbing away and cleaning up the streets the very next morning. No, the movement cannot be dismissed so easily!

There would be too much pressure against it, ultimately, for Occupy to continue having viable non-violent demonstrations across the country. But a statement was made and boldly. At the very least the general public got their heads dunked in cold water. That the wealth of this country is concentrated in the hands of too few, and the rest of us are seeing a declining portion of that wealth over time. Most of us knew this beforehand, and little could be done about it. The Occupy Movement was not any kind of failure, in my opinion, for it proved that something happens when people come together to rally behind a common cause. People come to know that they are not alone in how they feel, that horrible malaise of economic disparity. This venting may not in itself, correct the underlying economic disparity, yet is a critical part of a greater process which continues to unfold in its own time! This critical process is what we know as a social paradigm shift and is happening all around us, over time. It is met with great resistance (as all change is) but leads ultimately to overall changes in individual/institutional perceptions, changes in worldviews and changes in our culture trending toward justice, trending toward greater consciousness, many of which are toward healing and wholeness, and reclaiming marginalized parts of ourselves and society. You can see this all represented already in your world, if you just look around. LGBT rights, for instance. And there will be many more micro movements towards the macro movement. As individuals we need only follow the prescient wisdom of the day and 'be the change you wish to see in the world'. To anyone who feels marginalized or discarded or hopeless at this time: Don't give in and please Don't give up!          - KatYa

My poetry was chosen for another ezine, you can find it here alongside some other good poets of the community -- Words On Fire Ezine .  Also, I am training for the California International Marathon this December and donated some money to the crown jewel of Sacramento parks - The American River Parkway (my favorite place 4 cycling). This will be my first marathon. I am up to 10 miles now. You can find the CIM here -- CIM! 2016.  Book #3 of my urban fantasy series should be out by October 31st, latest.

eyes were made for reading

My eyes have not been cooperating with me lately. The one on the right keeps getting lazy about the focus when I'm trying to read, and then does not wanna shut down when I'm trying to sleep. Then the other one likes to wander off with my thoughts sometimes, and I gotta tell my thoughts to stop wandering which is not a nice thing for a creative to have to tell their thoughts. When my left eye stays on course, he focuses really well and I can almost speed read again when I come across some boring stuff Marcel Proust had for breakfast or some lecture Dickens is giving me about child labor or the gruesome details Cormac McCarthy might serve up at anytime. I hate it when my eyes cannot keep up with my mind. But even worse is when my thoughts are lagging the sight, cause then I might see where I'm going but not be able to extricate myself from a clearly tenebrous proceeding.

Journal # 04.18.15

 I had to let the world in, so I could come out right. Like hitchhiking. I only did that a few times. Me and my friend hitchhiked from an outlying town in Georgia to the base of the Appalachian Trail. The man who gave us a ride was a sheep herder from way back. He was embarking on an endeavor to herd Llamas. We were on to summit Blood Mountain on a hot summer day. You can see the world pretty well from up there. I think so. I let the world in, so I could come out right. Like camping. Enduring great changes in temperature, through the fabric of a tent. Freezing. Sweating. Burning. Drinking water from a stream. Getting sick. Eating the wrong plant. Being mauled by a mountain lion. You know. The kinda life Ralph Waldo Emerson envisioned. Or was it Thoreau? Oh I don't know. Letting the world in. Getting older to look more like monkeys. Feeling more human. Running on full, running on empty. Running on diesel. On vegetable oil. Writing books at forty, cause I have no kids. Interfacing more, face-to-facing less. Extracurricular inactivity. I've already lost my appetite. You don't have to let the world in. It will break the door down without knocking. And pick you up some. I got picked up some by the sound of thunder, carried in sheets of rain. I got picked up some and fired up like a steam train. Something fierce turnin' over and over 'til my spit become blood and blood was spit, and I will never be the same, picked up some and never be the same, no, let the world in and came out right, and never be the same.

VLOG - (something different)

I have been experimenting with VLOG (video blog)
because it's spontaneous and it's the real ME versus
the typical pre-composed works of fiction and poetry
which come your way. Although you can find all my
videos (music, spoken word, and vlog) on my youtube
channel, occasionally i like to post a video here where
I have a much larger following. If you like it and want
more, be sure to subscribe to my youtube channel.
Thanks and especially to those who have been so
encouraging to me in the different ways I try and express
myself! -K

Journal # 03.12.15

I wanna stop all the nonsense and get back to the real. It is not for you to question me about what is real. It is not for me to decide what is real to you. This is what I like about it. Reality is personal. No one's got a lock on it. I used to smile watching people try to force their brand of reality down the collective throat. What an hopeless endeavor! The smile has gone away. I don't like to see how it hurts them trying. What a desperation about it. That's cold. Maybe I can talk to them. Maybe someone tried to shut them down, and told them what they think is real, is not. So now they are on a mission to show everyone just how real their real is? Maybe they just need to be seen and heard, and appreciated for a moment. Reassured that no one's gonna take their real away from them. Maybe that would help? There's a lot of wounded little children out there, in big adult bodies. Who am I to hate a wounded child? I wanna help a wounded child. I wanna help! Well, that's my real, anyway. I guess I just got back.

she whose temples were rubbed - ii)

she whose temples were rubbed (a series of posts)
by Katya Mills, 2014

27 June 2011 at 01:24

PublicFriendsFriends except acquaintancesOnly meCustomClose FriendsFamilySee all lists...The Sequoia CenterOakland, California AreaNorthwestern UniversityJohn F. Kennedy UniversityAcquaintancesGo Back

Part -i) ::: revisited

Anecdote from the cutting room floor, circa 2009 …  cuts fresh falling off her aura, this girl. Locks of her soft layers of dyed hair flashing in the fluorescent light for the last time, in silence, her silence, the silence of her stylist, of her boots up on the old steel footrest.

She was sickly aware of being one of millions in her country. one of billions in the world. Any megalomania of her youth had been drowned or subsided into a pale ascertain of some kinda amegalomania minority status in the pantheon of petty class passive-aggressive weaker-than-war fare.

She was sick from feeling cold and sick of being stepped on like every footrest in every goddamn hair salon or rickety down home kitchen in the not so deep south where she hailed from. Snailed from. Slow to wake up out that hot and humid daydream.

Part -ii) ::: with tribute to Kurt Cobain, on the 20th anniversary of his young death

She knew she could neither recover the day nor the dream. She knew she would not recover, for she had nothing she wished to hide from herself anymore. What she had uncovered, well, it was all the darkness you could expect to find under an old rock toward the far edge of a garden, revisited after years of neglect.

 

She was a despondent girl.  Our girl. And still people dared to stare back at her silent icy stare. For they knew her as the daughter of disgust and disgrace.
Fuck, she thought, hers was the legend she would carry all her life and to her grave. Hers was the standard by which all could measure, even the lowest of the low, and still be seen as if from below. Her only entitlement for all she was aware, was straight up misery. Not unlike Kurt Cobain. And she wore interesting sweaters over floral button down shirts, not unlike him, beneath her cold hard eyes true. Looking back at you.

So she stared. And she could have cared how you reacted, whether you cared or did not care. Or did not care enough not to care or care. Many if not most were subjected in her presence to having her eyes upon them. The uncomfortable, unwelcome, malevolent glossy glare.

The silence of falling years of color, could not have felt more free on this day however. She sighed in the chair, having untied her hair. By the weight of her breath, one would not have thought freedom. But feeling was the heaviness set forth in the room, bouncing across mirrors.

Rippling earth through the room.

Folks shied away, children started crying. For what sensation she lacked, she made one without effort. A natural audience surfaced from magazines.  A natural uneasiness surfaced from her longstanding psychic wounds and kept people away like the bubbling molten rock volcanic.
It was said that those who ventured too close to her -- well... all anyone might hear was gutteral cries someone lost somewhere in their spleen. No one needed to know anymore.

She had some feelings about feeling. She did. She was not therefore unfeeling.
Who was?
Not to feel might be too plastic.
Whereas feeling was often way too dramatic.
So she strove for some middle path.
Which, despite her fair effort, often led her to static.
Whats wrong with static?

The silence that followed or preceded both her stares and her static...
she considered 
This silence was beautiful, she thought, like her glock automatic.
This was her gun, not a clock, not a toy.
She found it beautiful yet deadly. Two incompatible traits. Incompatible but not impossible.
 Her gun was something she kept neither to use nor enjoy. She found it in the pond by the old shed, where the shallows found coy.
Some spirit had told her she would find it there, and not only that she should or could - truly she had no desire to - but that she must go and retrieve and polish and learn the gun.
She did so reluctantly.
Then sent the spirit away with her stare...         --  to be continued --