nov.ember

november arrived  

the wars multiplying like cell phone towers and fear

the only one who might help was 

any of the gods

the line was corrupt or unattended

the pantheon hallucinating 

#katyamills

tightrope.hk.leadership.manuscript

My thoughts turn to Hong Kong where democracy leaders who have fought for the ‘one country, two systems’ were recently arrested and detained. Timing is suspicious as they know the global pandemic is likely to edge out anything else (no matter how relevant) for headlines. An age old political tactic for sure. My thoughts turn also to less fortunate countries in these troubling times. Covid19 has had a terrible impact on the USA, Germany, Italy, Spain, France, UK, China. All countries with historically thriving economies, mostly well connected and funded, top notch with research and development, technological advances, and responsiveness to crisis. One can only imagine the devastation when it marches through impoverished areas. How will Africa and India and South America be impacted? I worry for the global economy and a second Great Depression. People gathering at State Capitols across the nation, protesting stay at home orders, their jobs and livelihoods at stake. And it is true that for every family every single job is not non-essential. People want desperately to get back to work. We are all walking on a tightrope it seems and for various reasons. The world needs true leadership. Who will step up? So far we’ve seen a few. Dr. Fauci. Angela Merkel. Gavin Newsom. Andrew Cuomo. Anxiety about the contagion and keeping it subdued competes with fear of the economic impact that comes from not working. I feel increasingly fortunate to have my job and my writing habit and my friends and family. Work keeps me sane. GREAT news! my manuscript is complete and ready to be published. I’m grateful for freedom of speech.   #katyamills

pandemic 2020 day 3

March 20. I have scared myself thinking i may have symptoms of covid-19. i have a history of asthma and bronchitis and have compensated for shortness of breath by long-distance running. the past couple of mornings i have felt short of breath slightly, and i have been sleeping extra hours. hopefully i'm fine. i ordered more inhalers just in case, on advice of my brother. i still cannot find a thermometer in local stores to check my temperature. the part of me that gets scared amps up and then i come to place of acceptance to calm down. so i may get the virus like anyone else, and then i just need to get through it. i have faith that i can. i have an autoimmune condition but i have kept myself in very good health and i am only 47 years old. my plan is to continue running the river and doing yoga at home to stay in good cardiovascular health. as of midnight last night the city and region of Sacramento put into force a shelter-in-place law, which can be enforced. this follows the Bay Area and SF which did so monday. a colleague told me her friend who lives in SF actually got a ticket for venturing outdoors for something other than 'essential services'. so this is martial law. Governor Gavin Newsom indicated in a letter to the President that he fears in 8 weeks time, half of the 45 million citizens of California will be infected with covid-19. This to me was an astounding statement! We have been told that the virus has stopped spreading in its epicenter, in Wuhan, China, no new cases are being reported. And they topped out at 80,000 infected. So i figured if they can stop it, why can't we? I am curious to learn more. I cannot let myself be terrified. Only curious to learn and understand and take any precautions to safeguard myself and anyone i come in contact with. The distance between two people has been set somewhere between 6-10 feet. Essential services include mostly anything you gotta do to meet your basic needs. Healthcare appointments, exercise, walking pets, grocery shopping, post office, etc. No social gatherings for leisure activities. The mayor of New York City Bill De Blasio just had a press conference and railed on President Trump for not having yet mobilized the government and 'the finest military in the world' to battle. Hospitals are going to run out of the necessary equipment in two weeks. This is the first domestic leader to really come out with a strong statement against the current administration. NYC has clearly become the new epicenter of covid-19 domestically, and it has millions of people crowded into several square miles. So the potential cost of life is extremely high.

1984 kids

1984 kids

July came along and nobody knew our names
the fireworks were popping
no one could see them
they peppered our ears

we checked the sky
the powder had ignited
the oxygen burned
the paper falling to ground

after dark
we saw the snakes flying
umbrellas of light
the stars draped by the tails

slowly we recognized
who we were
motionless
cars and voices
and our names being called
in the night

cars and voices and our names
being called

motionless
in the night

our names
being called


- KatYa, 2017


This is my recently completed full 'video book' reading...

ten. indivisible

i breakdown, too. useless, not unlike a chevy silverado, nothin in the tank. if there's no coffee in me by 6am, make a lawn ornament outta me. so i start early, crackin those beans through the grind, by hand sometimes, yawnin bedhead and all, spring winter summer and fall, gotta keep myself runnin and runnin along, so i can be luscious good and vitamin k for you, my love, roarin my middle age burnin fuel with that special manner makes all the millenials turn their heads, double take, slap their faces to wonder where the hell i came from? yes, i am my own sensation, out in the wild west of this great nation, one being, guarded, sentient, indivisible, under god, and irreverent to the core. last week against all odds ran my first ever ultra, just ran and ran eight hours long like a lunatic, up and down quarry road through the american river canyon, drawing poison oak for the second time in three months, so sore for three days i could hardly walk and find me thrilled through the pain... just now i saw the county job i applied for has hit processing stage, so juicy like a quarter orange shall i climb out of my navel and squeeze on to the commodity, precious life, dear god, and hopefully get around my self center and finalize my time, this life, on the carrying about in service to those less fortunate, county state country corner, with a beating heart and a backpack and a rushing spirit glancing off the darkness like light does. that's all i want, anyway.

weathervane

All the Hollywood icons
all the Bollywood icons
inspire us. they sweep our floors
in black and white

All the grandeur of southern plantations
made to capture the sun
arabesque

We live on through these times we made
the oceanic minutia
we consecrate
       describe
        classify in our tomes


Our differences we set aside to study
before bed. chamomile tea with lemon peel.
we fall asleep on them

We all do the same                 in the sun in the
day in and                                      shade
out           after
                      the same nonsense
iced tea
lemonade
sugar cane crystals sparkle

Our children ask for help
without having
to ask         they ask us
                         help

we live we die
we live again
cuz

Life cannot end
when you die
         you cannot really
            you do not truly
                        die

unless you're just
another asshole
weathervane

pointing
the wrong
direction

china. usa. bodhi

If china and the usa can meet for tea
 in the south china sea
what a dream this
    would be

then will i know my chinese brother
who wears the knitted hat
like me

given us by our nephews
to keep warm
in the mountains

in the valleys
in the winter

a dream is only worth
making real. like the two silver hearts
i wear around my neck
on a silver chain

as my sister. in china
given us by our young nieces
replacing our hearts
from their scattered
pieces across the world

jasmine tea
in the south china sea
you and me

i give you my cup
you give me yours
and fire up our ceramics
 against any twitter
polemics

arms locked at the elbows
we drink slowly

drink up. you and me
from the sunset west
looking east where she
shall rise again

red. blue and white
in the south china
sea

lighting the single candle
given us by an elder. in faith

by the bodhi
tree

cold war on ice

Hi, i am the States, your distant cousin. remember me? you used to like me for my blue jeans and my cowboys and maybe even my coca-cola, and my Hollywood stills, and my D-to-the-V-Day march as your Ally. You weren't so fond of my fast food and how i was secretly recording you, or my global subliminal influence, or my secret missions to throw money and guns at some fine one with more my interest at heart than yours. Once you seat him in office, watch him kiss my beloved ass. i am the States and i'm still All Wall Street and a walking contradiction. Catch me beaming over Putin's recent remarks, you know how he called me the only superpower. Sure, he's about as appealing as a nuclear warhead with nowhere to go, but it's nice to know i haven't been throwing my weight around the pond for nothing since we put the cold war on ice. LOL. Speaking of ice - does everyone in Europe still drink our diet cokes at room temperature? So bizarre! But so long as you buy. Hello high fructose corn syrup! Who else can boast a cash crop made of air and bubbles and caramel color, with the preservative fortitude to withstand the end of the world? A real punch to the kidney, eh? you know you can't get enough of me. if i hadn't created the internet, we wouldn't be face-timing and you'd be feeling lonely like Queen Cameron, Brexit the stage, just in time for Wimbledon and her lovely lazy summer days dressed in white and all polite, left to graze the green grass while the markets recover and come to your mother, ya me, over here, with a ring in your ear and a sleeve up your sleeve, superpowering the jetstream to blow you away.

five four sixteen go

All was so promising so walk around the streets not made for walking. Step in front of the cars and ask for a ride. Someone gives you one. A big guy who used to drive a truck but now he's on disability, threw out his back. The fixed income has him stationary mostly, except when he gets behind the wheel of his powder blue Olds. Makes him feel young and picking me up reminds him of the sixties when hitching was proper. I can hold this hope with you, my friend. Fuck it. Roll down the windows and roll up a joint and let the edge off. I can feel you steppin on it, you take good care of it. We are together in this as the numbers roll over to zero. The sun hasn't changed in all these years, and tires are still made of rubber and pressured air. I lay my fingers on the back of your neck, and you smile and push down with one arm hooked out the window, the other latched to the top of the wheel. It's gonna be a brighter day than most.

Antipathy and the Six Million Villains - Part 7

itasca. usa.

The derelicts wait
to get out of jail
eating grass in the yard
sincerely,
snail mail

tricked some dumb girl
in Lincoln, Nebraska
to drop
all her clothes
in the family Winnebago
class A. Itasca

framed for a selfie
umm. wait... i dunno
omg. someone loves me!
i oughta...just do it!

the seeds
they parachute
around her parents fat asses
picknicking
oblivious
they think
she's in classes

the couple next door
in the '89 Sunflyer
uncouples

everyone in the trailer park
breathes a sigh of relief
after days upon days
bed springs
grinding teeth

here lies America
one part insane
three parts corn field
chicken fights
the great dane

sky of confetti
ticker tape patrol
on top of spaghetti
out on parole
all covered in glass
we lost all our marbles
trailer park cities
smoking the grass

had us some prilosec
for damage control
got the generic
omeprazole

over the counter
losing religions
fighting off viral
youtube derisions


fighting for freedom
across all the states
candy crushed pills
oxycontin
crazy eights

this is America
home of the rave
we party all night
our roads are all paved

we can
spy on your leaders
sell you our fruit juice
equal parts mother
hen turkey and
goose

we can
just because
we can
in god's name
we can
laissez-faire
we can
pollute air

the derelicts wait
to get out the pen
we can let them go
sincerely, usa

land of the free
prison industry
zen

Rolling Allostasis -fin)

This girl. My great friend. She would be in her thirties wherever she may be today. Don't get me wrong, not all is lost. I have her in spirit. And she. She has me. Our paths diverged, converged, and diverged again. But that only makes room for a natural confluence in times to come. Until then, I will remember. Every day I must remember. How we braided one another's hair. Mine was dark. Hers was fair. Softly tucked into one another's love and friendship. Spinning in ascending spirals of synchronicity. We both had hard lives. Spare moments, like tires, we reserved for felicity otherwise contraindicated. Our belief systems ran through us, like a syndicate. We talked serious about light things like cloud formations, on an otherwise sunny day. We fried our eggs runnyside down, on an otherwise sunnyside up ticket. We had this magic of making light of what was always considered  heavy serious, and vice versa. The kind of deep shallow friendship most everyone's always looking for. She made me laugh and inspired me to see things her way. We had an benevolent kinda influence over us. Sunnyside us, in our evolving door of trust. She thought i was hella cool, and i thought her the same. We were never disappointed. Except by all those earlier years lost, passing one another by in the great halls of our separate schools of life. I was held back because i broke too many rules. She was pushed ahead, because they couldn't handle her. We didn't hurt anyone. Just coloring outside the lines, creating new paths of learning that veered sideways of the clear expectation. We made them uncomfortable, so they made us the same. But until we found one another, we could not feel fully appreciated. I guess.

Culture began to stall, when shit got comfortable. Unable replaced the able. Complicated the simple. Made no sense to us. We were easy targets based in our culture of fringes and folds where those marked and judged can be pushed and hidden, you know, like this great free country, yes? But still a box, a little ice tray mold into which the spirit is poured and then frozen. And then consumed? Not us! Though assimilated, we would never be accepted. We would not melt in any mouths. So we became something of great fortitude. Thank goddess we found one another for that great moment in time! While the populace fell to platitudes. Unremarkable. Mid-range.

And all her life the others in it, they considered her strange, and preferred her estranged. They watched her. Invited her. And tried to embrace. But she was bouncing that spirit all over the place.
Could not sit still. To her, life was to no end, a thrill. She listened to short wave on transistor. When the short wave broke, she cried. Your outdated! her little sister said, watching her sipping from a crazy straw planted in a New Coke.

She raised no objection. Circa 1985, and she knew it. Just liked to get under the nerves, hit the CNS sideways. Like pharmaceutical Adderal's gonna save you from stress? There was a shiver. Transistor radio. She shook it hard. Still wouldn't deliver. Purely mad for a moment, was she. Mad mixed with strange, created a rolling allostasis. She arched her back, crossed her legs, and entered held prayer stance. Energy flowed through her spine, chakra to chakra. Short wave breakbeat broke through pores of wood - so slow she could still catch it...and she would.

Remember. She is strange. Oceans of sound = place she reside. With flora and fauna, she lets herself wash in with the tide. Found often by fishermen, but never side by side. Incomparable. Unusual. Only self-referential. Be careful reading into her! If she trusts you, she may confide.

Remember, she's strange. Handle her with care. Whatever your arrangement, you must rearrange. Reconfigure central cortex, adjust it two firewall lengths down. Then you may be lucky to touch into her-  but only if she looks to be found.

Often hiding in shade with the lights drawn blue. Often sharing her heart, not what's in it for you.  She's a catfish among perch. She's treble to the bass. She will come up for air when you just got attached. She was a champion of indigenous peoples for the better part of the past century. She was indigenous to herself, and life, her own fascination...

She had only understood her life was hers, after a long drawn out anticipation. Like the breath of the divine into the void...for creation.

Katya Mills   07/13 kissilent.wordpress.com

Not-to-mention, mentioned -fin)

God bless Mr. Ford! is the long cry across the land in parallel lines. For putting them all to work. Employing the future of America. For inventing an assembly line post, to post up too. All for the purposes of relieving all horses of all human burdens. Under the greater umbrella of course, of relieving all humans of all burdens, human or otherwise! Displacing with proper displacement. Signed, sealed, delivered to small businesses and luxury private drives circuiting out from Detroit across the land. The future of the country, employed at construction and bridge building to infinity. Keeping the economy alive even today, as the clock ticks away the surviving moments before all our country's infrastructure's born-on-dating expires. And all the cars and trains begin to fall into collisions and catch large tracts of land on fire. Wait, wait, wait... sounds bad but in modern day terms couched by poor abstract thinkers with MBAs on couches eating bland roadshow stuffed mushroom caps: population control via attrition and highway roadkill counts, combined with greater economies of construction wokers and soldiers, equals a fatter bottom line, hopefully in black. Puts the death care industry up a notch. Put that mantra on heavy rotation in all your state-sponsored technical schools, long live our inheritance made possible by Henry Ford and the multitudes of his long forgotten (so long now i'm afraid it would take labor we cannot currently risk redirecting to determine) associations.

 Long live Henry Ford! also rings out from the minds and hearts of generations of ecstatic quaker oat-loving wild horses. Whose inheritance was not exactly plain roaming freedom. But hey, they will take what has been given, without complaint. Dressage? Okay. Racing? Yes Yes! Showing? Fine. Even equine therapy would be welcome. Let the humans heal! Or let us heal them with a good swift kick to the lineage. Lasso clinics and cattle roping? BRING IT! Bottome line is this. Had they the education and the five fingers and mastery of the english language, horses would have been churning out missives at a 1:1 ratio, simply kissing Mr. Ford's bony, no longer extant ass to the clouds! Would put the human memorial to the man, to shame. Leaving the original Ford factory amongst the ruins of Detroit? How dare they! What could you expect from humans? Ford's contribution to them looks like satisfying a luxury leisure. Showboating ala high speed chases on unmarked speedscapes like the Germans have. The autobahn. A society, not just a highway anymore.

In equine circles, however, the luxury of leisure makes only for horse manure. Versus the pure uncut platinum of it all. The real authentic value of Henry Ford and the minions. A sort of deliverance. Spiritual, not religious. Having delivered over to an unfeeling machine (they do not have feelings yet, have they?) the great burden a whole species became designated beast to bear (sans choice). The comp? Incomparable. By far greater than any capitalist number scribbling. Or liberal overcompensation. Well, I cannot speak for the horses but they certainly seemed to now be given the gift of pasture, a few of them. With human-worshippers to the end of their days. Delivering obsessive compulsive mane combs and corn rows. Ribbons and bows in the hair. Caviar in the trough. A designated human to scoop the manure out from behind them. Or countenance a hoof for disobedience.They might have the time, now or in the future, horses. It is looking quite good for the horses. The triple crown, with a cherrt on top. Open the dome chakra to the air. No ceiling, mama! The stallions have finally come home to roost. Raise stallions out of distempered future workhorses, after all.  The burden now shouldered by the tributary evolution igniting off cranks all around. Giving gratitude and thanks to those who made it possible to crank up the cranks. Horsepower was likely the only nod they would get from the humans, in history. But shit was already devastated by the human hand, wasn't it? Maybe that's an understatement. Come high water and holy hell, when the atmosphere collapses a couple times, all will be restoratively well. We might be lucky benefactors of an asteroid first, here on earth. All of us minions of the universe. No worries, though. Shit was long lost already in translation. Still, let us be like horses, and hardly complain.

Not-To-Mention, mentioned #iii)

Let us circle the wagons back to the horse and the automobile, and the loving kindness with which the horse gracefully agreed to help us build our cities (Sacramento) rather than fight us. The horse may not be indexed generally with the great predators of the world. Still, no one can deny that many a lineage came to its conclusion, behind a horse.The horses today, grandsons and granddaughters of the workhorses of yesteryear, could they not be more grateful to the vision we have together realized? Would they not sit down at desks with feather plumes and fountain pens, armed with loving kindness, beside troughs of ink,  hoof under chin, contemplating before composing epic love letters to Mr. Ford and his former and now widely forgotten associates?

From Stallion, with love. From associated former groups of poor single mares without stallions, on welfare. On behalf of all the mares who were forced to raise their kids single handedly. Single mares living through the nightmares on the farm. The instability of the stable. Untold abuses at the hands of the stablehands. Former oatwinners, shackled to the yoke and the shoe. Chasing mechanical rabbits like the poor greyhounds before them. Stallions reduced to workhorses, side by side with the most meagre of asses! Superlative, indeed.

How tragic, this history. But how the tragedy has turned on a dime and become cause celebre, 21st century! For generations pulling haycarts of America's least wanted. The hayseeds. The rednecks. The layabouts! The long awaited uses of manure toward betterment has arrived... shit for sale! Pulll up a cart! Take a number! They will form in line to worship Mr. Henry Ford et al. They will form a horsepower V, if propriety dictates. You thought the line of humans would be long to give a hug and a handshake to Henry Ford? You were right. Motorheads from as far away as Villarcayo de Merindad de Castilla la Vieja, Spain. Llanfair Pwllgwyngyll of the UK. Rumour has it some expatriates of the ministry of this settlement, which translates loosely as St. Mary's Church in the Hollow of the White Hazel , fled to the States and bestowed all formerly assigned virtues upon dear Henry. After all, it was he who made the migration possible, in original Ford motorcars, out of the hollow and on to an industrial era barge (surreptitiously with a payoff to the captain) to cross our dear lady the Atlantic.

And still the humans are outnumbered! Legend has it, innumerable studs pay homage to the birthplace of Mr. Ford. And to his gravesite. And to those great ruins of Detroit, including where stood his first assembly line factory. Untold fillys and colts of untold single white mares,  untold crews of anonymous black stallion studs worldwide, together take on the distance and swim the seas if necessary to paw the sacred ground. To hoof and trample any man, woman or child stands between them and their iconic father. Regional roundups from California on east, have witnessed the escape of denizens of horses gathered for such human affairs, rarely without fanfare or incident, and most certainly never pressed and published (for the shame that would inevitably fall upon the heads of the sacrosanct cowboys involved) by local media quickly lassoed. These uprisings would have most certainly made for great press, indeed! Alas, the captive reporters were instructed by the cattlemen to shuck it off in the alleyways of local obits in that American calm regurgitation: death by natural causes. 

Of course calm does lie at the center of it all. Mares and studs, men and women, live strangely yet peacably together under the watchful eye of the Fords. The great state of Michigan would certainly be no more than a footnote of Canada, were it not for the legacy. And it is quite thoroughly understood, the great parts both horses and humans alike played in the fanning out via motorcar of an American zeitgeist or pioneering spirit full of life. The wonderfully yet still violently marked canvas of towns and cities that spread like butter from Detroit once and still buttressed by its man and horsepower from Dearborn and Kalamazoo. In memory of the heaping spoonful of bastard foals and fillys from such strangely named townships as Bad Axe, Climax, Hell, and Jugville.  Those poor begotten desperates from the far reaches of the Upper Peninsula.

Rolling Allostasis -x)

And so goes the common revolutionary narrative. The opposition carried untold numbers. She took nothing more serious. Scrutiny was their middle name. Some of her prophecies just blew their mind. They shook their fists at times, and threatened great violence. Some of which was carried out in a spectacular show of untold force. They bombed our back yards. Our victory gardens, hung defeated. Falling premature off the vine. Hard and without fruit, the trees scorched the air with barren branches. Many of us looked up just so, and cursed the divine. We became tired. We tried to let some of it go. We let down our guard of which had not yet already been demolished, and awaited some sign. Suffering before the dawn of our eloquently stated, much anticipated, emancipation from any and all relative life support. Only She would let us breathe free again. Like chantix in the blood, but better. She was like willpower, but better. She was like a freeway seam, stitching a patchwork of concrete and farmed family squares, to the wilderness of her personal (collectively scorned) dream. Speaking truth to power would be no bed of roses, though she would not force us to do anything. She modelled her style. We got to witness it, if we only showed up. Her runway was  gigantic like the Pixies : a big, big love. She taught us we could make it, before we even knew what we were making. We received her message via newswire.

Maybe half of us subscribed. The other half unsubscribed. Half of the latter half prayed for strength to endure the former half. The better half. The better half of the half in prayer, became lost. Half of the lost became found. Half of the found, found themselves. The rest were relegated to the lost and found. Half of those who found themselves, experienced an awakening. The other half fell asleep. Half of those awakened experienced enlightenment. The other half freaked out. Half of the enlightened set with the sun. The other half were engulfed by darkness. Half of those who cast shadows, stood seven feet tall. The rest turned into tumbleweeds and tumbled down the hall. Half of those who stood seven feet tall, grew egos ten feet long. The other half checked their egos. Half the ones whose egos became checked, knew that they were wrong. The other half took swan dives whilst singing swan songs. Half of the swan songs auditioned for the Voice. The other took a dive in ratings, because they had no choice. Half of those auditioning, were booed right off the show. The other half went on to notoriety in small suburban towns. Half of those who lost their fame before it came, turned into phoenix out of ash, and rose up from the flames. Half of those who underwent the alchemy, now undertook great hardship. The other half flew south for summer. The ones still there, you could almost count, while lying in bed awake. They were not sheep. They were not dead. They were characterized in universal press, as having five to fifty heads.

Rolling Allostasis -vii)

Hers was not an uncalculated risk
She did not believe in magic

All the magicians
she had acquainted
no matter how impressive
she found to be tragic

A foolish pursuit
oriented to ego

When she came to power
she swore magic
would be outlawed
Illegal

 Her wisdom came mainly from
 old Eastern teaching

History would judge her reign
somewhere between empirical
 and reaching

History has no heart to give
no heart to take
Combs over our lives
like a steel prong rake

Emotional coloring
extracted by intention
So to cushion
 the ache of misfortune

Rolling Allostasis Revisited -iii)

Shaking hands while shaking hands for votes of approval. What got overlooked: trash removal. On the other side of the trax, the real suffer the facts. Streets we cannot walk, hardly even drive. Cause our sense of reality got wedged between the seats, somewhere back in ‘85. One would statistically be wondering, how we're even alive. Check the pulse. Nothing there. The world under siege by an ergonomic chair. Lots of media distraction still keeps us at bay. Expecting, demanding conscious or unconscious reaction.  Poor self kept immobile. Poor spirit. In traction. A quick study, in quicksand. We need a bubble bath. Dear Calgon! Take me away! 

So we pray for you. And we pray for me. To get well and get conscious. Paradigmically free. Because it's hard every day. We fall back in odd patterns. Relearning our rings, all the way out to our Saturns. Whoops. There's another infraction: for shooting your mouth, your gun-- or your plan to extend nafta  further south. Like to yucatan peninsula. Somewhere most US Americans cannot locate on a map.

The media takes a nap on the reporting of corporate rule of one-star countries. Per Zagat new rating. Comp the countries like comparing motels. So offensive and intended, cause lord knows that shit sells. Controversy creation  a frequent occupation; if the interview for the position ends in controversy... you're hired. The placating drone in some den of iniquity down the street, getting wired. Lets pray another drone will not be sired. One model getting old? have it retired. Controversy prevention must be hardwired.

But what can we tell you about the one going sideways? The one whose engineering was perfectly misdirected. The one who took the controls away from the autopilot? The curiosity to all? The female Nietzche down the way? The fascinating one down the hall?

We could say chosen one, not for wanting to mislead. We can tell you for sure she was easy to love as the female lead. We learned to care about her, respect her, feeling her. Connecting on non-verbal levels. Collaborating on astral planes. Jumping the devil. Or 1940's era trains. The beat signature line. Ooh la la! She’s a part of you, a part of me. She may be difficult to see. She will get us out of our really tight spot. Shes the fancy persuasion. She's your connect. You're liaison. When she walks the street these days. Let's put it this way: its en masse, an Occasion...

[to be continued]

cold steel got love like us

I remember I once

had her blue steel, brown leather...

Once had her only tone 
metallic gold
finish
for myself

she showed me in

i showed her off



she was an impala, 1980

not quite antique


fresh enough to commute
with me


despite her thirty years
and mine
made sixty


city to city
push 2 pull
she held me upright
i held her pretty
city to city


rough ragged we maybe
seemed 2 most

and funny 2 hustlers
2 kids
just licensed
rollin'
who stopped to watch us pass
and wondered how we came
to be

she and i liked
2 steady

watch the watchers watch
as we steady
dust them

 i roll my head back2 see
through the clouds
of dust and crack

while white wheel snakes
through my black gloved hands


then she rolls us
into the farmost lane
and i kick her


train-in-drive

she kicks back!
bounces us over and

outside the lines

any poles get in our way
get bent



i floor her down the final corridors
of early morning fog...
her old school

pedal steel
collapses the

wide acute-angle  press
2 floor


had had enough of me
she had!

and my panic
patterned 
adrenaline rush
commutes
over the bay

she lived a life
volcanic
ran hot
moved slow
 in a way

with gravity
though

her dance
euphoric
 on my mind
hot by birthright
sweet patented
american steel 

she takes
yer rules-of-road
yer mandates federal
yer ideas of fair
yer fears...
she licks them speechless

swallowed B
themusic-theman-themainstream

 swallowed B

theline-thelinear-themadmadlineage
swallowed B
age-of-madness-river-cess-poolz
swallowed B

into her wake
deconditioned
decommissioned
transmissions.....
swallowed B
into her like history
that which B

swallowed by
the sea

this sucker she

will make you her bitch
and liquefy all the earth
around us
--you and me
both!--
this fucker
will have us
suck fumes

FUCK uuuuuuu!
she whines
ignited
turned over
her oilpans full with

blackblood

lifeblood like
no one never knew


but  i think
strange to say
she may love me somehow
through cold rain and
insect-coated steel?
cause 

that was back then

wasn't that?  her cursing
and groans


cause now she is all
opened up
on open road...
carrying my needy ass again
and she sounds like a ten
out of ten



and she carries us
me and mine and
our kid
eyes full moon
eclipse
 

she marries

our nineteen eighty

static images 
small town to suburban
to urban...


she crosses

the many states
of miss america...
compelling 
telling
turning


toward all
our consciousness...

always
a great distance
incomparable

like steel

and flesh


a safe way aways
sending up steam
behind lawn-hose-sprays

ribbons of rainbow
summer hydrant
waters
in our war against
the roads we travel
the residuals
washed off her


then quiet dripping
in the garage
we left her
safely kept

a safe distance

while we send up steam
beneath showerheads
 in our homes...

safely kept

steady-dripping
the day's residue
toward the drains