water from fabric

like water from 

fabric you got the truth 

out of a liar

by twisting 

#katyamills

what with

what with water what
with sun you arose
from nothing

snapshot 25

the sky is asking the
water running i
discard my early morning jeans
step into the
peach skin of apartments
the weave of baskets the
morning sun the
life of the

day


#katyamills

water on ice

the wind whipped through
made sense of the calm
they got so tired they
fell asleep walking

the sky turned blue long after the dawn
they forgot to remember they
had not stopped
talking

when she finished the sentence he awoke
with a yawn and asked for two eggs
over easy

she fried the eggs by the sun
in the palm of her hand

the sky turned white long after the blue
the end of the day long overdue
washed down with water on ice

last drop

I would question the sun's motives were he situated different, in closer proximity to the earth. If I got close enough for the interview, I would get all the answers I need. My pen would melt before I got a word down. Awakened by brilliant light, see me run toward the darkness at dawn. You would be waiting for me at the plateau, I know, the last drop of water on the edge of our collective sanity machine.

system.closed

I passed a young man of Asian descent lying on his side, he was bald-headed and bloody. He told me how the politicians were tracking him. He had a square of metal and tapped the top of his head where some of the skin had been scraped off. He was smiling and calmly began scraping at the cut, and I asked him to stop. He asked for water. I had a bottle in my bag and gave it to him. I walked up another flight of stairs to a room crammed with technology like the inside of a space shuttle. There were operators in there who knew me. I became enraged, feeling helpless. I believe the operations people carry out across systems could be more carefully intended and tended. Instead they get rushed and executed, payrolls capping both ends. People are shut out and they suffer. There's barely enough water to go round.

'street art midtown' by k

flash on chalk

chalk drawn sidewalks told a story of the city on a sunday morning. the heat was beginning to climb upon us with the sun in the sky. i took some coffee and you had water and we walked three corners of the square. many of the artists were down on their elbows touching up. a kid who had not learned to talk looked in our eyes and pointed enthusiastically at some faces in the stone. no longer alone.

pressured by fronts and driven to tears

we are not so unlike clouds in the sky, are we, puffy and bleached turning gray, you can see through us and other times opaque we hide our secrets inside us, coming for us and striking through they do, yet still we remain intrinsically unscarred or untouched, reflecting it all sea to sea and the earth, where we travel we leave the residue our prints passing silently along, forensics loves a cloud, made of water and vapor we are and capable of many forms, evocative of endless feelingstates, containing our own electromagnetic storms we are carried by winds and made by trial and fire, under certain conditions we scatter and the streets become empty and clear like the sky, monotonous, monochromatic we are pressured by fronts and driven to tears

vasodilating in the heart of an era

Having dressed the walls and my wounds with classical music tonight, my thoughts now alight upon the exclusivity principle rooted to our being. The marrow starts to gel in the bones then vaporizes and shrieks out - a veritable night train whistle, forewarning us of the onslaught of the millenial generations. It's nobody's fault. Life just steams and marches on, stepping carelessly over the carcasses of the formerly treasured, the loved. Some of the more rock-like formations hold out a little longer. Consider the St. Petersburg Conservatory, one of only thousands of imperial-strength monuments in the world which could sing you impossible tales of a century ago, hemmed in at the waist by a sea of concrete.

'Highway#1. Bodega Bay by helicopter' - KatYa, 2016

One cannot have a delicate stomach for change. We must all harden our arteries to the passage of life, for it will divert its path from us and our microcosmic runs, either way; tastes will change, schools will shift, culture will replace itself, rejecting, celebrating, denying, judging, appreciating, dismissing, cherishing, banning, engorging, ridiculing, savoring along. I think the best you can do is love it while you last, participate in the push and pulls, and when your very own consigns you to your residue, the dripping-to-seal wax of human history, you take your place and hold there, never giving up, whilst the populace cartwheels over your back and pushes you deeper down by soft and sure palms, to the world beyond the light-wind-water-fire, into a quiet and dark place inhospitable to your past, where you may again flourish with a nitroglycerin glow, vasodilating in the belly of the heart of an era.

three chances

Cancel my subscription to the mobile phone.
Cancel my subscription to the ozone layer.
Cancel my subscription to politics and gas.
Cancel my subscription to lethargy and cable.
Cancel my subscription to drugs and alcohol.
Cancel my subscription to tap water.
Cancel my subscription to other people's pain.
Cancel my subscription to being led on.
Cancel my subscription to recycling the same old crap.
Cancel my subscription to acquaintance by text.
Cancel my subscription to an inside job.
Cancel my subscription to middle east oil.
Cancel my subscription to grocery store mailings.
Cancel my subscription to cage free hens.
Cancel my subscription to ad-free tv.
Cancel my subscription to barnacled rituals.
Cancel my subscription to imperialism under wraps.
Cancel my subscription to liars and thieves.
Cancel my subscription to half the world religions.
Cancel my subscription to new and old waves.
Cancel my subscription to smoking and vapes.
And modern day slaves.

Give me an endless cup of coffee
Give me someone to love
Give me someone who loves me

Give me a song with no words
Give me a room with one window
Give me a book with no message
Give me a laptop with no hard drive
Give me a friend with no agenda
Give me a chance

And I will give
you one
two
three

to be who you said
you could be

I and my country, no longer depressed

What becomes of us. Pine Sol was applied and life began to smell chemically sound. All the memories of the unnaturally clean gave an egregious sparkle to my calm. Anxiety B. Gone. Outstandingly purified past a point of recognition, the chemicals ran into our pharmaceutical futures. Sometimes I put the coffeepot under the tap, if I was lazy or rushing to get to work. What a mistake! My thoughts went sideways and up was down. Only the headlights of the car could save me, pointing into the rain. I saw the materials filling in the light, each raindrop one hundred thousand part prozac. I and my country, no longer depressed.

Journal # 02.19.15

Thursday. Water became very important to me. More essential than ink. I went after it. I brushed my teeth. Texted someone back. Nobody calls anymore. Then I drank a glass of filtered water. I looked toward the sun. More water. Called the tigers back home. Water. The tigers jumped up on the sink. They, too, wanted to get in on the craze. I opened the faucet, plugged the basin. Tigers drank water. I got another glass and drank water, watching the tigers drink water. The plants cried out. I watered those bitches. The sky selfishly held on to the drought. I ignored the sky. So it began to cry. The stems of the grasses and plants grew taut. A rainbow stole the thought. The water inside me,well, the moon tried to pull it away, but it struck upon my skull. Had nowhere to go. Condensation churned colors and feelings around my mind. I began to drip with excitement. I filled glass bottles full. All around the house. Phone calls. Water. Working at my desk. Water. Lying in my bed. Water. Sitting on my couch. Water. Making breakfast. Water. Like it was going out of style. Coffee. Water. Coffee... a change then came to pass. Coffee. Brewed with water. Coffee! Cannot get enough! Oh yes, water, I did not forget. I need you! (But only to make my coffee). Then after coffee, the diuretic effect kicks in and all the water goes away. I am sucked dry. Personal living drought. Gimme more coffee, please. NOW!

journal entry. date unknown. (performance)

journal entry. date unknown.
Posted on December 4, 2014 by KatYa


And suddenly the long uneven thickening and thinning motion which we followed for days, to some terrifying expanse of the same substance, which slipped through our hands and burrowed easily into earth, endless before us; suddenly jumped up into the air, unseen, and immersed us, standing there. We tried to take cover, yet still could not escape it. I shivered so long. I knew not would we survive. One of us took on a strange chill, became quiet and very hot to touch. Then ceased to be anymore. Another one then began to shake and call. Overtaken by the bitter salty substance fell out the eyes for days on end. They, too, would soon cease to be. The rest of us finally understood. We fell down before the mighty moving creature. We prayed. Then cupped our hands around it, breaking some off from the whole (though appeared unbroken), and looked at one another one last time; then took it to the lips and raised our eyes to the sky, open pale of neck, and let the substance seep into ourselves! A most unusual feeling as it reached down into me! Further! We waited. We then fell one at a time, to earth, and fell asleep awaiting.Then rose I know not when or how! And smiled! And embraced one another! For we were still alive! From this moment forward, we drank and followed the uneven line of this great, mysterious, borderless, lightness of mass. Trusting. Cupping it in our hands and hollowed tree limbs. It led us to verdant wonders never before seen, or known! We listened and the sound, once frightful, was now soothing us to sleep. The air was fresh, and colorful at times! And in the mornings, sometimes, as light awakened life… we immersed ourselves entire, in cool and friendly waters still. Life would never be the same.

fire

be careful
when
playing
with words

you
might
    hurt
  some
   one

'the wind remembered'

- K - Original poetry
written and performed by K

- K - attitude art series
'evolve'

 

the wind remembered

 nobody remembered her name or her face

or the pale of her wrists

by the edge of her lace



no one remembered the man or his name

who sunk his axe deep


in the wood

in the yard

in his sleep



only the wind still whispered her name

through the gaps and the floors

through those walls

made of wood


and wrung out the leaves of the trees

just like hands

to remember the others


the other ones who had died

there


two and twenty years before

and twice as long

before then


and twice as long

before then


and twice as long

before then

a symphony in G-minor (with snails)

She rocked back
trusting the chair
leaning
far back
and far away

deep into forests
where light and shadow
play

spinning yarn
spun forth
through her fingers
spinning time
through her mind

the crescent cut of wood
at the base of her rocker
cut right into tabby cat's
tail

outside god
cast water into stone
hail

electric cat nails
dug into hardwood floors
nine inches
deep down
where termites sleep

the yarn
began to spin
backwards now
wrapping itself around her

she was lost
in thought
trusting the chair

the spirit of her
long gone lover
conducted the scene

the yarn
the rocking
the chair
the cat
the nine inch
nails

and now steamrolling out
on the flat hardwood floors
a band of notorious garden
snails

skating - a poem

http://wp.me/s1qcWq-skating