Saturday, 31 August 2013
Friday, 30 August 2013
jaded as jade
There i was...
Headed out from my apartment on foot, wearing cheap ass walmart moccassins showing my toes, dressed to the eights (a casual step back from the nines), with blood on my arms from where my four month old kittens attacked me while i was sleeping off a one night stand with my pen.
There i was...
A young american single white female, contemporary of all the other genXers using some sort of animated fiction to report the hideous truths that could never be received by the culture embedded within them.
There i was...
Takin' myself too seriously. All the way down the stairway, with my bicycle on my shoulder, to the street... and then some. Tryin' to take my ass light-heartedly through my morning. Riding on down the street, in the middle of the road at sunrise. Highlighted strands of hair falling out behind my Fuji Feather, licking the base of my neck, like blonde flames. Under the influence of anti-gravity. In the dark and baby blue of the dawn.
There i was...
Down the street after dawn. Dealing with all the personalities of the world in a single room... and then some. Tolerating as best i could tolerate. Day #5 without a cigarette. My own personality, the most difficult and least refreshing of them all. Splitting hairs with split personalities. Jaded as jade. Spitting in the wind.
There i was...
Banana fucking split! Sitting upright on my bike, riding back home. Five miles of legs. No hands. Praying i might take a dive on the railroad tracks. Just so i could feel something different. Split ends and all my hair falling back anti-gravity to lick my neck, in the wake of me.
There i was...
Dealing with the sinking depression that clung to my soul, all of my life.
Sinking back into my pain, as the burning sun rose silently over my head. In the pits. In central california.
Here i am...
Split ends and all
In the wake of me
Without shade
Praying for a miracle
Jaded as jade
- Katya 08/13
Headed out from my apartment on foot, wearing cheap ass walmart moccassins showing my toes, dressed to the eights (a casual step back from the nines), with blood on my arms from where my four month old kittens attacked me while i was sleeping off a one night stand with my pen.
There i was...
A young american single white female, contemporary of all the other genXers using some sort of animated fiction to report the hideous truths that could never be received by the culture embedded within them.
There i was...
Takin' myself too seriously. All the way down the stairway, with my bicycle on my shoulder, to the street... and then some. Tryin' to take my ass light-heartedly through my morning. Riding on down the street, in the middle of the road at sunrise. Highlighted strands of hair falling out behind my Fuji Feather, licking the base of my neck, like blonde flames. Under the influence of anti-gravity. In the dark and baby blue of the dawn.
There i was...
Down the street after dawn. Dealing with all the personalities of the world in a single room... and then some. Tolerating as best i could tolerate. Day #5 without a cigarette. My own personality, the most difficult and least refreshing of them all. Splitting hairs with split personalities. Jaded as jade. Spitting in the wind.
There i was...
Banana fucking split! Sitting upright on my bike, riding back home. Five miles of legs. No hands. Praying i might take a dive on the railroad tracks. Just so i could feel something different. Split ends and all my hair falling back anti-gravity to lick my neck, in the wake of me.
There i was...
Dealing with the sinking depression that clung to my soul, all of my life.
Sinking back into my pain, as the burning sun rose silently over my head. In the pits. In central california.
Here i am...
Split ends and all
In the wake of me
Without shade
Praying for a miracle
Jaded as jade
- Katya 08/13
Wednesday, 28 August 2013
Tuesday, 27 August 2013
somewhere in the middle of nowhere
The prison industrial system had gone haywire. White collar criminals were housed with the social media criminals, in a less than secure fashion. They were hatching and then carrying out leveraged buyouts of miniscule candy-wrapping companies, via aggregate snatches of pooled, so-called friends; who then became encouraged to open their google wallets and paypal pocketbooks to support fabricated facebook (et al.) causes.
The money was then laundered, of course, penny by penny, into offshore accounts administered by friends of the white collar criminals, through joint accounts. Then the money returned to the United States, clean, and ready to be put to use in any way possible to get the imprisoned braintrust of the two specialized areas of expertise, out from where they were currently located, ie, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Political inflluence and bribery, were the preferred methods. And were rather successful.
The prison industrial system had gone haywire. Statistics, like usual, had not yet caught up with the situation. Patterns and trends had not yet become visible. There were wealthy pyramid schemers and social media predators conspiring, while eating shrimp scampi and watching flat screen televisions in common areas which were wallpapered, carpeted, and quite nicely ventilated for somebody's comfort. This was somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Where your average taxpayer was seldom located (thus often unaware).
Somewhere in the middle of somewhere, your average taxpayer was busy working and coming home from work, eating, sleeping, fucking, arguing, drinking, watching family guy reruns... and returning to work in the morning. And doing that all over again. And doing exactly nothing on the weekends. Other than maybe babysitting or arranging babysitting for the kids. And all the aforementioned activities, in between. Oh, and watching meet the press so to have a finger on any non-developments in politics worth arguing about, customarily, at the lunch break.
The prison industrial system had gone haywire. Summarily. If haywire is still currency in the english language. The English language had gone beserk. What with the movement away from the Oxford standard and the Merriam Webster. Hardly anyone could remember who the hell Strunk and White were, anymore. Except that they rode tandem. Even less read their book on grammar, the Elements of Style . Exactly nobody read that 1918 text for fun, anymore. The Urban Dictionary got the nod. Wikipedia got the nod. Scrabble and lottery crossword scratchers were among the new tools which replaced the old tools. Punctuation was a luxury, not a necessity. Spelling was often a free for all.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, white collars combined forces with social media criminals to bilk millions of their hard-earned hundreds and thousands. Amounting to millions. While eating extravagantly and laying their scheming heads at night on feather pillows, on the taxpayer dime.
Inside the prison walls, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, was crime. The enforcers paid to enforce there, became careless and distracted. Being non-tech savvy was the norm for a guard. Hours of conversation in the well-ventilated, carpeted common areas, drifted to the topics of the inmates' expertise. Many a guard had his eyes opened to the new world of androids and their usefulness in killing paid time that had no precise designation. Somewhere in between locking and unlocking doors, spot checking rooms, etc.
This kinda special acquaintance between a man and mobile phone, quickly accelerated into an attachment disorder. The inmates knew the psychology, having experienced this, themselves. They did not share the psychology with the guards. The guards were not interested in psychology, anyway. Not until they lost their jobs over it. Long after taxpayers lost their paychecks. For having been easily enticed into ramping up privileges, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, at the confluence of white collar river with social media streams. The currency on the floor was now petty wifi favors. The extraspecial yet ultimately simple tasks of rooting phones for free wifi hotspots, to enable laptop access of mature internet content. To escape the eye of intranetworks and the data clocks of mobile corporate carriers. What mattered most to the guards who would soon lose their jobs, but not soon enough: getting mature content on to larger screens. They were easier on the eyes.
The prison industrial system was off the hook. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, on the taxpayer dime, in between the locking and unlocking of doors, on a cush-comfort carpeted feather down experience, where white collars collided with those found guilty of social media crimes, under the distracted watch of wannabe enforcers who spent the greater majority of their relaxed minimum-security level shifts, gambling or watching youtube videos or texting girlfriends and wives, and whom would soon lose their jobs...
Somewhere there in the prison system, on the taxpayer dime -- was crime.
Katya Mills 08/13
The money was then laundered, of course, penny by penny, into offshore accounts administered by friends of the white collar criminals, through joint accounts. Then the money returned to the United States, clean, and ready to be put to use in any way possible to get the imprisoned braintrust of the two specialized areas of expertise, out from where they were currently located, ie, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Political inflluence and bribery, were the preferred methods. And were rather successful.
The prison industrial system had gone haywire. Statistics, like usual, had not yet caught up with the situation. Patterns and trends had not yet become visible. There were wealthy pyramid schemers and social media predators conspiring, while eating shrimp scampi and watching flat screen televisions in common areas which were wallpapered, carpeted, and quite nicely ventilated for somebody's comfort. This was somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Where your average taxpayer was seldom located (thus often unaware).
Somewhere in the middle of somewhere, your average taxpayer was busy working and coming home from work, eating, sleeping, fucking, arguing, drinking, watching family guy reruns... and returning to work in the morning. And doing that all over again. And doing exactly nothing on the weekends. Other than maybe babysitting or arranging babysitting for the kids. And all the aforementioned activities, in between. Oh, and watching meet the press so to have a finger on any non-developments in politics worth arguing about, customarily, at the lunch break.
The prison industrial system had gone haywire. Summarily. If haywire is still currency in the english language. The English language had gone beserk. What with the movement away from the Oxford standard and the Merriam Webster. Hardly anyone could remember who the hell Strunk and White were, anymore. Except that they rode tandem. Even less read their book on grammar, the Elements of Style . Exactly nobody read that 1918 text for fun, anymore. The Urban Dictionary got the nod. Wikipedia got the nod. Scrabble and lottery crossword scratchers were among the new tools which replaced the old tools. Punctuation was a luxury, not a necessity. Spelling was often a free for all.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, white collars combined forces with social media criminals to bilk millions of their hard-earned hundreds and thousands. Amounting to millions. While eating extravagantly and laying their scheming heads at night on feather pillows, on the taxpayer dime.
Inside the prison walls, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, was crime. The enforcers paid to enforce there, became careless and distracted. Being non-tech savvy was the norm for a guard. Hours of conversation in the well-ventilated, carpeted common areas, drifted to the topics of the inmates' expertise. Many a guard had his eyes opened to the new world of androids and their usefulness in killing paid time that had no precise designation. Somewhere in between locking and unlocking doors, spot checking rooms, etc.
This kinda special acquaintance between a man and mobile phone, quickly accelerated into an attachment disorder. The inmates knew the psychology, having experienced this, themselves. They did not share the psychology with the guards. The guards were not interested in psychology, anyway. Not until they lost their jobs over it. Long after taxpayers lost their paychecks. For having been easily enticed into ramping up privileges, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, at the confluence of white collar river with social media streams. The currency on the floor was now petty wifi favors. The extraspecial yet ultimately simple tasks of rooting phones for free wifi hotspots, to enable laptop access of mature internet content. To escape the eye of intranetworks and the data clocks of mobile corporate carriers. What mattered most to the guards who would soon lose their jobs, but not soon enough: getting mature content on to larger screens. They were easier on the eyes.
The prison industrial system was off the hook. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, on the taxpayer dime, in between the locking and unlocking of doors, on a cush-comfort carpeted feather down experience, where white collars collided with those found guilty of social media crimes, under the distracted watch of wannabe enforcers who spent the greater majority of their relaxed minimum-security level shifts, gambling or watching youtube videos or texting girlfriends and wives, and whom would soon lose their jobs...
Somewhere there in the prison system, on the taxpayer dime -- was crime.
Katya Mills 08/13
Sunday, 25 August 2013
six different ways since sunday
The dreadlocks were thicker than fingers, and held by silver and gold rings in various outcroppings from his nappy, happy, pretty head. He told her the stories behind the various rings. Each story was like a gem. She listened, intently.
His caribbean roots surfaced as a generous smile in the eyes, which beamed out a distance equal to the length of the island of Barbados. She must have seen him six different ways, since sunday. And he always had a smile for her. Even if he was locked in the turmoil in his mind. Behind those beautiful, open eyes.
Rolling up on a week, maybe two, of much conscious contact between the two.And maybe a screw, or maybe two. What with a screw or two loose... what's new ? The world perpetrates the sanity. Yet the dreads were somewhere for her eyes to lay easy. Blurred into an single aura. A home for a while. In a smile the length of Barbados.
Wrapped around a light beam. She wanted to let the world and everyone, know. She wanted to unravel the whole, sweet cinammon bun. And he could have her; for breakfast, lunch and dinner. She was content to just walk down to the farmer's market by the grande lake theatre, saturdays, by his side, holding hands.
Still, the essence of him could hardly be touched, and not by holding hands. Whatever was going on, was all condensed and rolled up from basic filaments. Though she felt the warmth of the sunshine of his spirit for some time, now, no defenses run so deep to hold the world off. They would not last long.
She was sad to watch it all pass over her, like the sun across the sky. Then a somewhat fiery, diluted, orange ending. And so close to halloween. Less than a year since they met, and no time in between.
Embedded (below the horizon)...
Dreaded (came the darkness)...
There, now (she knew it)
it's over (she said it).
Katya W. Mills 08/13
originally written in 2009-10
His caribbean roots surfaced as a generous smile in the eyes, which beamed out a distance equal to the length of the island of Barbados. She must have seen him six different ways, since sunday. And he always had a smile for her. Even if he was locked in the turmoil in his mind. Behind those beautiful, open eyes.
Rolling up on a week, maybe two, of much conscious contact between the two.And maybe a screw, or maybe two. What with a screw or two loose... what's new ? The world perpetrates the sanity. Yet the dreads were somewhere for her eyes to lay easy. Blurred into an single aura. A home for a while. In a smile the length of Barbados.
Wrapped around a light beam. She wanted to let the world and everyone, know. She wanted to unravel the whole, sweet cinammon bun. And he could have her; for breakfast, lunch and dinner. She was content to just walk down to the farmer's market by the grande lake theatre, saturdays, by his side, holding hands.
Still, the essence of him could hardly be touched, and not by holding hands. Whatever was going on, was all condensed and rolled up from basic filaments. Though she felt the warmth of the sunshine of his spirit for some time, now, no defenses run so deep to hold the world off. They would not last long.
She was sad to watch it all pass over her, like the sun across the sky. Then a somewhat fiery, diluted, orange ending. And so close to halloween. Less than a year since they met, and no time in between.
Embedded (below the horizon)...
Dreaded (came the darkness)...
There, now (she knew it)
it's over (she said it).
Katya W. Mills 08/13
originally written in 2009-10
Saturday, 24 August 2013
Sunday, 18 August 2013
some action on the street
The wheels were spinning up there. The chrome was gleaming in the sun. The heat had the streets cooked. Melting the tar and oil into rivulets dripping down where the rainwater goes. The wheels were spinning. The spinning rims decided to spin the other way. The film and oil dripped off the grills embedded in the pavement. The fishtails of boys cars dragging in the streets, swept water in, through the gills.
The women in stilletos smoked newport smooth hundreds, in the streets. Their heels sunk an inch into the melting tar. The smoke swept into their lungs. Their heads got dizzy with the chemicals. They swung their upper bodies down over the bus stop benches, and around their hips. They puffed their lips out at the strangers. They pushed their middle fingers out at danger.
The alcoholics ducked into aa meeting halls, got lost in sweet anonymity. The addicts ducked into na meeting halls, to escape the blistering heat on the street. Their would be prayers inside open doors. Tears inside meeting halls. Tears of joy.
Women who were born in the thirties, came out with reckless abandon on to the street. Pushing their upper ages into triple digit heat. The older women were strong. The old men were very kind and sugar sweet. They came out with their canes, in their wheelchairs, on their walkers. They came out and talked to the talkers. The young women got quiet and listened. The young girls holding the hands of the young women, smiled and kicked up the dust. The young boys were satellites, who blushed.
The young men were not always around. Maybe somewhere working. Maybe playing cards. Maybe surveying. Maybe construction. Maybe surveying a location, on the job. Maybe hammering or drilling or connecting wires. The young men with hard hats on. Staring at a soft ass, on the street. Maybe hammering or drilling. Maybe talking to some honey, sugar sweet.
The smokers were kicking snipes into the street. Rolling embers off the end of a half-smoked marlboro. Rolling their own. Talking shit. Girls were gossiping. Men were boasting. Punks were smoking reds like joints. Real estate agents taking smoke breaks on the hour. Waitresses cursing into their smoke, before and after they had to get their asses inside and grab a fucking marinated mountain trout from the line, and sashay into the air conditioned dining room to their tables. Waiters got incensed by ten percents, and went down into the basement, to do whippets off the whipped cream again. Dropping cans on the cold cement. Then out to the street after they clocked the fuck out.
Katya 08/13
The women in stilletos smoked newport smooth hundreds, in the streets. Their heels sunk an inch into the melting tar. The smoke swept into their lungs. Their heads got dizzy with the chemicals. They swung their upper bodies down over the bus stop benches, and around their hips. They puffed their lips out at the strangers. They pushed their middle fingers out at danger.
The alcoholics ducked into aa meeting halls, got lost in sweet anonymity. The addicts ducked into na meeting halls, to escape the blistering heat on the street. Their would be prayers inside open doors. Tears inside meeting halls. Tears of joy.
Women who were born in the thirties, came out with reckless abandon on to the street. Pushing their upper ages into triple digit heat. The older women were strong. The old men were very kind and sugar sweet. They came out with their canes, in their wheelchairs, on their walkers. They came out and talked to the talkers. The young women got quiet and listened. The young girls holding the hands of the young women, smiled and kicked up the dust. The young boys were satellites, who blushed.
The young men were not always around. Maybe somewhere working. Maybe playing cards. Maybe surveying. Maybe construction. Maybe surveying a location, on the job. Maybe hammering or drilling or connecting wires. The young men with hard hats on. Staring at a soft ass, on the street. Maybe hammering or drilling. Maybe talking to some honey, sugar sweet.
The smokers were kicking snipes into the street. Rolling embers off the end of a half-smoked marlboro. Rolling their own. Talking shit. Girls were gossiping. Men were boasting. Punks were smoking reds like joints. Real estate agents taking smoke breaks on the hour. Waitresses cursing into their smoke, before and after they had to get their asses inside and grab a fucking marinated mountain trout from the line, and sashay into the air conditioned dining room to their tables. Waiters got incensed by ten percents, and went down into the basement, to do whippets off the whipped cream again. Dropping cans on the cold cement. Then out to the street after they clocked the fuck out.
Katya 08/13
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