journal # 08.31.16

all i got this morning is a lot
all i got this morning is enough
all the soft edges of society dissolve like stitches

'precious dawn' by k

the last polite evening has come and gone
august given away by september
fade to dawn

'see' by k

sure sure sure (circa 2011-12)

Don't go-o   o-o-o
spans the world and
then falls alongside it as
you fall away


from one
another
and left by your lonesome
you
imagine (poorly) what it would be like to live alone

Had you been (alone) long enough
you would not be so worried
about being that way
(alone) imagining (poorly) what it would be like
to be coupled up again and
being one or the other
you cannot imagine
too well

Each morning
(when you come to)
Slap your face
girl. Drink your coffee
black

Wait   don't go
be (mine) said the mirror
be ours

Ours be ob
literate
rated short of the qualite
verite

Ob
long
(traces hold on)
in song

Ob
literate
ate twice as much

Still you lack
still you come back
(comma)
feel
comme lit
vulva hood sensate
clit

Cut yourself
some slack
awkward awk
period (time of month)
once honored twice mocked
breast enhance in the fall
leaves something less
redux

Ack
look at that
rack
smiling eyes over the canyon
few inches average elevation
milk shake nation

ack awk gawk
heart attack

Sure sure sure
if you feel it
do it soon
sure sure sure
new
waxing waning full moon

Suresuresure
whatever
the moments momentum
needs your all you

got your attention

Kinda lead
kinda cheer

sure sure sure but
soon
employ
plot
devise

Sure sure sure
remember
memory
ember
the fire
the flame
flickers
falls out
back
to uncolored
to
the same

More of
less

wants you back...
wants you what
you want what
you track what
you back you
backtrack
ack


You go
getter
letter
deliver
soon
let her
sure sure sure
forever stamps
sure sure
those ones they them
thematic
whatever

Go
show her
get her
let her go
to the hills
to the fields
to the small patches
unseen
unheard of
let her

They will
they will rise
yes
sure for sure
for sure for her for sure
they will
we will
all will
get her

So no
more if ands buts
sew and stitch
soul seven sides spirit ways
and able
to table and blood
blood let
her


--  KatYa, 2016

ultrawriting and the swing-arm scorpion

Life is good getting better, all the running when mixed with yoga is another return to the moving current, out from the eddies where modern life traps us. I am also more involved than usual with a man who cares about me. The summer has gone quickly and quietly, a couple of heat waves and otherwise plain old lovely northern california sunshine. Yesterday morning I ran a half-marathon on my own along the river, for the first time ever and it felt great. I especially noticed falling into a sweet rhythm of breath and motion. I am hoping to use endurance running towards developing a discipline for endurance writing. There, the cat is out of the bag! I'm gonna start an ultrawriter craze. Writing entire novels at one sitting while choking down powerades and peanut butter! Think I won't? Watch me.

on a heli-tour

Last night I had a dream I was at work with a clipboard with a checklist of items had to be done on the shift. I was working with perfect strangers and asked them for help but they didn't want to help me. Turns out some woman with a big mouth who looked like a swing-arm lamp scorpion was in the hallway talking shit about me and some perceived hurt I caused her. I immediately confronted the scorpion and she blabbered this nonsense to my face and I didn't even have to look closely at her to know she was lying. After all, I have never before met a swing-arm lamp anyone! I told her to shut the hell up and she started inching up my leg, and I woke up terrified. If that doesn't get you out of bed, nothing will. I scrambled out and into the kitchen for some coffee, and worked up this joke:

What do you do when someone's telling lies on you?
Hang them by their toenails and feed them the truth!

navel (final) label #5

Meet me underwater, where all distractions die
The fish cannot be told what to do

When I was green I felt like an imposter
I felt older then, when I was younger I felt much older

I opened it for you too many times
the door. Because I was older but so much younger
in my ways. I made careless decisions as I
got younger

I wore blue jeans

Today is a lot different. I am running longer and longer
distances on my own along the river
for the first time in my life

I don't know why
but I like it

Yesterday is forgotten though I won't forget you
What were we doing? the nickel bags turned into quarter ounces
and rolled into dimes

You begin to appreciate arithmetic

 the nineties changed me
more than any other decade
i think

and then i met you
you were one of the first to love
me changed

you in your descent
like a base jumper
over the rails
waving goodbye
in a wingsuit

throwing away everything
for a thrill

People get bounced like checks
before we fall. I wish you could
meet me underwater

where distractions die
social media cannot breathe

i am training my body like my mind
nobody told me how

i like to live by my spirit
and its longings

I am somebody no one else can be for you
you were somebody
to me nobody else
could be

a singular moving object
in a forest (of trees)
a label. without a navel

the only stillness
in a forest
(the trees)

GWB 1.16.1 videobook

navel (touching) label #4

The fabric of life
a dust-colored thread

i will now hug you
so hard (your hat falls off)
 while tickling the
backs of your
      knees

archived emails with
comet tails (uncomfortably)
we watch them
disappear

entire social contexts
gone awry
(and)
the way you know i know ya
is textured like granola

    and guns
    and sons
    of guns

cannot unravel
what we've come to love
about (our fair maiden)
weave city

sewn back together the
ends of days and
carefully self-placed in bed

head at the foot
foot at the head

eye of needle sees
the thread and
closes ranks

 send in the dreams the
fortified milk the
hormone replacements
the fortified tanks

I might pull too quickly away
 vacuuming the room to
 do the dishes

dreamer
do the dishes dreamer
do the dishes

 the track switcher the track
switches having seen your face
in my reflection

god i love to dream
with you about you of the tail end
of dreams where we
(begin)

(again)
your lips on my earlobe
untying the knots of a world
without touch

the blush of a crush
on the plush

mile high pile
the dust-colored fabric
of life

too fuckin' bad to be
 without a studio

you coulda
got it all
down

navel (orange) label #3

There are so many ways we came to greet one another, I knew the love was alive by this alone (no stale greetings, no hallmark cards). You came with flowers, I would surprise you from behind the door and rush into your arms... you might call down from an open window, warmly gazing at me on your elbows... I might do my eyeliner up in a signature Amy Winehouse kinda way with a twist... we might pretend like we were strangers, you would act like you were delivering a pizza -- Is so and so home? I have an order for a Miss Mills... you would often be wearing my clothes.

russian river by Katya

Your arrival into my life had been so unexpected. I must have done something special to get you for a gift. I was alone and even lonely before I met you, I wonder now, did that have something to do with it? I would bring you pastries and coffee, your favorite kind. You brought me a paper once you took from the neighbor's driveway. So what? you said, You can tell they don't read them, there's a half dozen on the lawn! (Yes, well, maybe they're on vacation).

sky by K

We like it here in our little earthen corner of the wind sky water joint. Don't we get along swell? I study you within the four walls, floor and ceiling. But never confined, no, always free you are to float toward or away from me and us and this condition cannot condition the unconditionable -- that is you. You drive me crazy, whatever whomever however you are.

navel (gone larger) label #2

A great compression hits the air and electricity unloads upon the city and picks up pavement like legs over jumpropes. Spent out on long nights and hazy days between command central (some adulator's basement or agitator's sister's garage) and the Civic Center. Planned protests (amidst unplanned parenthood). Your body and your mind are notched for shorter play, but the spirit moves the joystick. The sound of it makes most young activists want to switch to substitute teaching.

And many probably do
But not you know who

Others join the green party ranks
Or the army, marching behind tanks

I would  move (with you) to Amsterdam or Vancouver
where we could talk on talk radio with the world about
anything but that

what's behind the label
across the sheltering orange rind
of the navel

To be chicken-wired into a city 4 block radius
by choice. Fast food ideology. To give away your voice
by choice  -- Berlin, circa 1942

Caution. it might hurt
Planned parenthood (amidst pop-up protests), hazy days and spent nights for dizzy girls spun dry from wet, will never be women to boys will never be men, lucky if a fifth make it to the clinic where everyone's betting against them, only a tenth make it out half-alive. Fast food ideology.  -- Chicago, 2016

There, there...
All washes away, tears and problems and headaches and trash
Flags come out on Patriots Day and how dare you? I love
(my country) too

There, there...
The pulp is safe and juicy inside
full of nutrients (and whatever's in the water)

A great decompression hits the air and electricity unloads and picks up pavement like legs over jumpropes. Feelings around the block so diverse and tangential, burning like coals in the eyes and faces of those who live deep in the heart of the American city. Every AMERICAN city unified, from Quebec to Tijuana, Houston to Montreal, Toronto to Rio de Janeiro. Feelings catch on and so alive!

We will need no lighter fluid. You and I
 The solar flares (sent by sun) have arrived

navel label (cut off the orange) #1

  I found myself in a jam... reluctant to change. I was grown on common kinda ground and walked the city streets with the disheartened and lost like myself. I knew who they were. I saw them reaching for the same jars in the same grocery outlets. We held the same posture and fears and blood pressure.


I found myself in a jam. Halfway through my peanut butter sandwich. But I saw no end to the torment. We fight and we try. And why? My mood, my status and my affect --my sense of myself in this chair
      this room
         this house
               this hood
                    this town
                   this city
          this country
    this world

this universe
the emptiness
Better off senseless sometimes

I have felt so foolish
 my reputation fallen
My spirit lost and out there somewhere lookin' for you
Callin' and callin'

GWB 1.15.2

Journal # 08.22.16

We used to walk together down to the boatyard with grandma in the village, trading gossip and good stories about things only locals knew about the lake. The long and deep winters burrow into you and you become reflective in the intervals between cutting and hauling wood for the fire. The snow falls night and day and you are steady and still as the lake frozen over. You listen to the wind whistling through the gaps. The world outside your windows is beautiful and unforgiving, and you develop a deep respect for the ways of the world, the season and its accompanying challenges. Some are keeping bees and tapping maples for syrup. Others are hunting and trapping. Still others are shopkeepers and schoolteachers. The many state and national parks are staffed by rangers and historians, though the groundskeepers are always the heart of any place, for they can remember how it all came to be. 

Only they can keep the place running. You will know them by their oil-soaked shirts and plain stained pants, and a ring or two of keys. Only they are entrusted with certain secrets which more than likely will go to the grave with them - but their honeys know, too. My grandma lost her husband in the early seventies by a heart condition, and then outlived him by a quarter century. She ran an antique shop called The Barn in Melvin Village, NH. She traded in painted barrel staves and chests and American furniture from the 20th and 19th centuries. Sometimes I imagine her all alone up there in the strike of a desolate winter, getting by with the help of neighbors and friends. I can see her striking it up over coffee in the living room adjoined to the barn, with any of her favorite local all-around men. Serving them coffee in the peeking of dawn. I see the hardened swollen hands receiving and carefully encircling the ceramic coffee mugs, and sipping the coffee she percolated, black. I see both the pain and laughter in her eyes. The mutuality. Her love lost. And the easy conversation goes to shop matters and upkeep, and rumination over how long things will last. And god, do I miss her. 

GWB 1.15.1 videobook

two quotes from book three

"I imagined she was right here beside me, pressed up against my ribs, our bellies greeting through our clothes, what hips we had trying to push around, and I could catch her tears on a fingerprint, cupping my hand to her face."  - Ame, on the telepath with Kell

"He had a foul mouth like a carnie. I thought about back in the days when my parents used to take me to the carnival and the way the cotton made my fingers so sticky and I would lick them and the rides were flying overhead and everyone was petrified, screaming, and oh what a wonderful, terrible place it was, drunks stumbling around cursing, girls getting pushed over giant stuffed animals on the outskirts, expected to give it up for what they got. Guns and the hammer coming down hard to push the metal up to ring a bell. Primitive. The rides were old machines and not always safe, the carnies loud and uncouth, everyone so happy to be scared. Everyone but me. I was turned on."  - Ame, on Black and the county fair

GWB 1.14.3 videobook

roadie of a lifetime

spex of dust were everywhere and still we could not see them. you looked immaculate to me (though sullied by religion the word captured what i saw in you). you somehow had not sold out in a world of sell out crowds. and though it left you virtually alone on stage, without lights or ticket vendors, audience or effect, i would be your roadie. and if only i could, i would be the roadie of a lifetime. doing your makeup in the green room. pear green manicure. strengthening your eyelashes with my famous beeswax and used car oil (i tap it from my very own volkswagen). coaching you in the red room, whispers of unintelligible talking points. making love to you in the eggshell room, comingling of hands and the clock. you have the most striking off-presence, haunting the auditoriums. and after your final bows, the curtains hanging still like they never want it to end, I will hold your hand in the dressing room, fording our river of forgetfulness    -katya

stream # subzero

good versus bad could be the subject line in so many stories we tell one another, the backdrop for the narrative tales that thread in and out of the jacks in the boxes, the sevens the elevens, the wall green white hens laying eggs on your bank account until they topple and fall below zero to get charged lacking overdraft protections, the bank tricked out the selections, egg in your eye so all you see in the yolk of your mirror is some bloke whose tramped out and you clean and stamped out with some substandard nonglass maybe bleach infused product, summer tanned to understand and bleached on the beach, privileged to be lazy with your reach for the cell phone to make ends meet in another zip code, a city street, an elevation way up high in a place of certain control and power, soon to be undertowed away having worn the boot too long and through, having anchored yourself in one place. bombs away they say as they raze you -- only you can raise a new you -- a locus among locusts where from all the lofty semi-ideas truck over inferieures in hemis with emmys and gaze, bent over forward or backward or side to side just to hide your true feelings toward someone not quite befitting the mantle, the boss, the one who commands, the one who destroys outside thinking, the one who insulates the factory and checks off on imbalances. on the balance sheet of life its quite clear that the eggwhites of eyes register the very zero so many are fearing and steering as far clear of as may be consciously possible, and who knows where the unconscious is going sometime, personally or collectively dreaming away on a counter. what makes life interesting, makes truth stranger in many ways and harder to pinpoint than an invention of some no good for nothing unemployed poet mentored by purportedly self-actualized dharma bums and beats, optimized daily with new vegan recipes of brown sugarcane juice and cost-cutting and paper-saving methodology, supplemented by earth focused animal-friendly strawberry goo, and rather fascinating for a bonus, right? and that's what they think of you and me, too.

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.

GWB 1.14.2 a video book

GWB 1.14.1 a video book

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.

couch (the muse) with netflix

some of my best decisions come outta me when i let go of logic and hold on to that feelin and so was tonite as i went ahead (with only a sliver of 'proven' in my pocket) and signed myself up (placed my bet) for the Cali International Marathon this december and the Run The American River Parkway (20 mile) event this november, so now i have 4 months of arduous training ahead which was not part of 'the plan' in my head all year, yet i will follow 'the feeling' instead cause it seems to make my life alot more interesting. i will be the first in my family to run a marathon so that's cool, make my family proud. the greater hope i have and the part where the leadership quality in one's own life appears (leadership as one who makes the unpopular and ever outrageous split decisions which turn out very well for everybody in the end), is not to shelf but rather to impel the big idea - the Book (of course) - i have my heart set upon. how? well, i reached nine miles (on my own time) in my latest run. i've been keeping a close eye on the physical as it interacts with my mental and psychological, and it's been mostly stimulating. object in motion stays in motion kinda theory (which i believe in). yes there have been days lost to these long runs. but what is lost in the immediate aftermath of physical exertion is restored only to complement/supplement the mind and spirit quite soon after hydration and sleep. in these (restorative) conditions the muse is more likely to come out and play, and certainly more reliable than couching (her) with netflix.  my grace period (i gave myself) ends on halloween, what with national novel writing month on its heels. what i'm saying is, if you are leading the way in your life like you oughta, you may be unpopular with yourself but good things will follow, or inspiration follows perspiration (a duller way to say). i am making my moves and enlarging my 'risks' for greater 'rewards'. the populist in me has the simple-minded view that drop-everything-2-focus-on-writing-the-books is the easy answer to all my problems, but the populist has made my life a living hell (in the past) because she's an idealist and not at all pragmatic. times I so situated myself to carry on her way did not yield any bountiful harvest... i can see... so that my Book(s) may be written, I need only follow the feeling, drop the populist, lead the way, and amp up an already amped and blessed life scenario. are you with me? hold on cause here we go

we fall (recollection. november 2010)

Has been
she was. she was a has been
looking quite seductive
attracting our energy
i remember with sadness
we remember collectively
the witches
the sufis
 the mystics
the number people
those who lived and died by the numbers
and still do
scratched rolled
got high kick adrenaline off numbers
got lowdown dirt broke
laid over numbers
by the tracks
across them

A double cross then
on this one night
three times heated over
some petty useless argument
murderers murder over
(needed an excuse that's all
they cannot kill without reason)
no real reason
just lost
double crossed
fumblin to get wide of my skinny jeans
on the beach
last night
tonight tommorrow
night

Some kinda player he fashions himself
me some kinda someone
he plays
well i was not gonna
open up for no singular double crosser
guess what
guess what if you're guessing
(throw my sandy blonde hair back
over my eyes so not to give away
whats behind them)

Betrayal
the colors were changing my iris
cobalt blue turning royal
i am crossed in this setup
its painful. his means to my end

Just so
just so used to violence
always im touched. made to feel like giving up
you must be violent with the world
violent with self
violent with me and
i got the patch can you not see i
got the goddam medal
ya. still. you would get into it with me
the cannot be spoken and not even here
understood

Come here with your weak game to this ball of resistance
 this wall. my existence
come here to my softness
and soft may i be
yet bold with flavor like
english breakfast tea

i won't need a receipt
i will walk away before you chance to raise your eyelids
you never even caught me half mad out the door

Half mad
half out
half lost by
the door
half mad
half out
half empty
half sad
none innocent

Double cross
and raise you twenty
the poverty adds up
to make us poor

You your solemn sorry self
just trying to score
thought i was on the take when i wasn't
Had you seen yourself going down
you could have would have saved your self
again recounting the drama the day drove into
your lungs when what you call a heart
is unknown to you

You who made the world ache
in the eighties what with
 your prosperous nonsense you're
 unnecessary

You gave when giving itself was on the take
 jake

    a snake
          a snake
 reptilian counters your smooth wanna-moves

No one
not even that younger girl you had
down by the small towns the
small lake
a quiet night it was
 and that's what gave you away. too late
too late too late for her anyway
(she's the kinda one im here to remind you of. hello)

If not myself
not myself
whom you clearly forgot
behind your made upedness
I would be
i was
worn out
my make up
well. just fell

Fallen down in cream mineral bare
essential straight loss
i gave up on you
and your double cross
you see. i crossed too. i had to

got prepared
had an agenda
planned it out
(what a cost)

Ya I wore the long boots skinny jeans
you saw. you knew
(you wanted it, too)
damn
i feel cursed
i feel cursed just like you
just so

Made up me and you the monsters
in this creature double cross feature
this sordid rendez-vous

Made me a star
i got the feeling awash over me like a little kid. i did.
whose feelings come like waves roll out like petals
to the song of the sun every day
opened up. in this state
were it blissful
were we pensive
houston
were we texas

No, no. no, i never been there. will you take me someone
i'm a star, remember
the star
i'm some star. right. and stars shine
they do. remember
they dont go
they dont go just where you ask them

Dont listen. stars. do they
(always gotta get some action)
You know by what you get...
what you got when you
ask them

Royal blue drained to cobalt
i hid this from you
you did not exist for me then
nor did i for you
goddam
you kill me
a little more every time

I'm tired. i'm tired thats why i'm talking to you
 about you
because
to you
about you
for you... one nation of you (under you)...
fuck you

See
we fall down
it's fall
and we fall
falling together
fallen down


over one
over all
we fall
we fall

soft blanket statements

The urge is to break away from the pack and recover my own heartbeat, whenever I am lost in the crowd, and like Debussy's 'Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun' my pulse on its own stands wobbly and inquisitive at first, wishing for the comfort of the soft blankets left behind, and gathering my strength with the first light to see myself through to some incidental rhythm which might pick me up and love me a little and carry me, not unlike a waltz, a Kachaturian favorite at the Bolshoi Ballet, anything that begins to throb and push my blood out for more, more, more... 'cause what we have here is not enough, my friend, not enough at all to justify the effort life demands, no, to go on living requires an advancement of faith sometimes, a personal loan of decisive courage written off an account in arrears, I mean therefore a great risk of sorts only could be taken by a fool or someone who cannot fail. And that would be me, dear sir, enfathomed in the stabilizing clay of primordial pockets, ready to be fired and glazed, a modern day rockstar sold out to the streets and kicked by a label, stretched to the capillaries on short supply of sanity, appeal in the curiosity of all that's gone wrong when dipped in the culture, coming out bold print with a comic sans striation. A modern day American girl with a penchant for obscurity and woven matte finish regalia. Loving you, loving life and ready for anything. Turning to old masters when I don't have a clue, songs from the cemetery when there's nothing better to do, yes, punching up the pulse to a lively arpeggio, ascending off a decline and here I sign.  - KatYa

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

GWB 1.13.3 - story

a deepening

if you wait in the least comfortable place you may let yourself into an inner door of a greater force and inspiration, well, i just experimented myself and got there and how did it happen? Okay, first ingredient was the new moon. I have apparently been wrong again! in my awaiting the full moon, investing too fully in the symbol of the full moon and nothing else for a return on my energies. This is what happens when one is pulled at by so many angles you lose yourself and collective archetypes begin to pronounce themselves to you... so you go for a really hard exercise (in my case an 8mile run followed by a 1mile walk yesterday) which takes you out of your mind and into your body. then you get some uneven sleep chopped up by the trend of cats in motion and a subtle but heavy rumbling through the walls (the inhabitants of adjacent apartments). then you get up after midnight and heat the coffee and milk on the stove and walk around feeling the dull aches and pains in the body, softened by slippers on the feet. the pain is all further softened by cereal followed by a whole thermos of coffee taken slowly over time in capfuls. the sounds you allow are windchimes and passing trains and autos in the night, and voices and laughter of late nighters, all through cracked windows, and inside its gotta be either silence or kitchen humming and a low volume atmosphere of local public radio - classical. jazz is not to be discounted, but jazz is better for winter, classical for summer to counter the general liveliness. I tried a firm chair in the back room with the laptop on a small glass table. Had a capful and bantered with the cats. Stepped outside on back and front porches between times of writing or reading or thinking. Delta breeze in effect tonight. I was several times convinced I would need to go back to bed to restore energy. But these thoughts make no sense. I am nothing if not well rested! For several months now! Last year this time it was quite the opposite, or two years ago, when I was much more invested in coffee and perhaps a whole pot a day versus today less than half a pot a day and much easier on the nerves. At any rate, this was the semblance of my condition about three hours into my new day at night, a dull suffering through a lull period alone, when scanning a cell phone article about a famed spanish director who just cut a film loosely based on a famed canadian author's short stories, i suddenly felt my energy congratulate me with a shift and i stepped down into the dark of my backyard (seeking lightly the one cat whose always out and about hunting), and saw the new light from the apartment building across Eggplant alley which was always there but now the entire building presents itself to me on one flank, for the tree removal people took down the side of trees for some reason last week and what took so many years to hide, is suddenly bare and exposed forever. And I thought in an passionate way about a dispassionate subject of renting a home, well, how many little spaces with aircon units jutting out in little boxes, how many little nooks and crannies there are in this and any city! That if you set your heart on a little space, man or woman, you may seek and find your very own! For there are so many even right here within a hundred yards radius of my own! And this was a happy thought which followed and follows with more and more inspired and happy thoughts, and I certainly would have laughed in your face two hours ago when I woke up sore and wondering, had you told me then that several inspired happy thoughts would come my way and brighten up these new moon days of crescending energies, and they have. they truly have.

Journal # 08.07.16

Quentin he was out on the porch which corners mine, when I went to call for the kids. A few long and lingering whistles is all. I'm sure he's heard me calling many a night before. There's really no need to explain myself which is one of the luxuries of being neighbors. Quentin and I have never met until now. He's pale and stout and dark, and well-spoken, and I have never seen him standing up. He grew up here. He just moved back from Palm Desert or Springs, not sure which. I have a faint interest in Southern California. He tells me the sudden rise of mountains there give a false sense of security and he liked living there, the people were kind.

Seems to me in one month every single apartment next door has turned over, but I could be wrong. I know two of four have. I liked some of the kids who left (and they were all kids), but I don't mind the turnover. Keeps life interesting. Q (he said I can call him Q) is too hungover to make an interview, he says, and puts out his cigarette, picks up his cell phone and calls it off. Some people would never do that. It takes guts to call off an interview. I like him already.

Aside The action won't always be yours. The sidelines are waiting and you will make an interesting cheerleader what with your inflexibility, Einstein. Bicycles resting against one another on the walls. Saturday nights that never end. Distant signals and lone sirens and crossings. Flagpoles without flags. Broken glass gleaming in the streets. A bend in a hose that stopped the water in its pressured tracks. The threads of the faucet are getting wet under the back pressure. I think there are five colors to any head of hair. Two primary, three subtle, and I'd rather not throw it in your face. It is early Sunday morning, after all, and half of you will get a preaching, and half of those won't be in safety of church.

the river. with family

The river came to us and met us at her banks, midday and summer hot, we had only to approach her like disciples with our faith in her and find our place (which seemed designed for us, divined for us) where she came flush with the land, a mossy patch of soil leveling there with the freshwaters. we laid a thin blanket down and had submarines for lunch with cuts of avocado and alfalfa and cream cheese on bread. we used the sub wrappings as plates and we talked. there was my older brother, m&m (my niece), Skipper the dog, and me. they were on their way to Tahoe from the Bay, and thought of me and stopped by for lunch. i decided on the river cause i had not seen my niece in so long, and i wanted us to have a peaceful place to reconnect. besides a few river rats around us (i mean locals who were mostly friendly albeit boisterous), we were all enfolded there into the pastoral scene as if we had been painted in by a master, in oils and acrylics on canvas. nothing here could or would speak to the frenetic city behind us or the insane politics of the world. we had shade from the heat and a chance to show one another the kindnesses of a decade ago. i cannot believe i lost her for so long, the greater part of which I can attribute to life's path, problems and poor choices i made. while they were trying to raise a family in the twenty-first century, i was literally falling and climbing and slipping and reinventing myself and trying to manage in a world which i didn't think really wanted me. i seemed to have marginalized myself, but it wasn't all my fault. it was just my life. and nobody was really blaming anyone, but the river between us could not be forded back then.

now we found ourselves on the same banks, reunited, and i had my lucky break after several years of remedying the mischief of my life and lifestyle, involved in many decent and useful causes these days, full of purpose these days. i got the chance to speak my truth, and m&m got hers, and i had a wonderful listen while my brother her father sat between us and the dog at our feet, panting in the heat. my brother and sister (in-law) have done a fine job parenting as anyone could do. i am grateful to them, not having made that commitment myself. anyway i can be a part of the family, is good enough for me, anyway i can help. today it means not being demanding or complaining or selfish, just staying open to any opportunity may come along, for i love them and that's all i know. i was not so attentive to my family in my twenties or even in my thirties, so overwhelmed was i by my own life. and unhappy or depressed some of the time. vices and habits and poor choices in company. you know the story. i may be at fault for many things, but not for becoming who i am today.

so here we are, the past behind us, making what we can of our moment together. i didn't seem to think we had much in common anymore, me and my family. but i learned in truth, by my experience (such is truth) that when you have blood in common, that alone is the mark which oughta draw you together; blood alone oughta bring out the best in us. to be there for family no matter how incongruent your aims, how varied your pursuits, how rocky the terrain of your individual temperaments. you show yourself (when welcome) and give of yourself as only you can. i may not be any great success of any kind, yet i have survived a sometimes cold and callous world, city life, and the effects of an often misguided sense of my place in it all. so i am blessed to reach out and be received. we had a nice lunch. we had a nice talk. we saw a sea creature surfacing every half minute for air, as it plodded upriver. it was unusual and mysterious. My brother and niece were both worried that it needed salt water to survive. Skipper the dog met a friend. the river rats began splashing about just down from us. the sun reached the top of the sky and looked down. it could not quite find us. we packed up to go. i believe this is as good a new beginning as any. my niece she seemed unsure at first, and i was a bit anxious, but walking back to the car beside her i felt the good feeling with them, knowing we are blood, we have good history, and there's hope - the sun has found us now - and nothing means more to me than this.

the scrivener corkboard (writing tools)

I have the outline to my book now available to me at the touch of a key, on Scrivener's corkboard feature. The screen background looks like a corkboard, and there are index cards created for each chapter, which have the chapter heading and space for you to write summaries or whatever you feel you need for a quick visual outline of the larger narrative. I only seem to require the corkboard when my story expands. In this case, I'm playing with about 100,000 words, or about 50 chapters averaging 2,000 words. When I'm working out of the body of the narrative, on Scrivener, I have the chapters descending down a left column, and clicking on any chapter will take me directly to it. When the cursor is brought to the super heading 'Book#3' under which lies the cabinet of sub-chapters, the entire narrative will appear and you can scroll through it as a streaming passage. Often I find myself cutting and pasting and creating new chapters and recreating old chapters. And all you do is drag and drop a chapter in the cabinet to place it in a completely different location in the narrative, so I love the facility the ease of relocation, it almost inspires creativity or open-endedness in the editing process. Yesterday I filled in the corkboard summaries that were missing (new and recreated chapters), and found myself adding notes to the simple plot outlines, including notes about the feel of the narrative from one chapter to the next (ie humor, dark, heavy on action, descriptive, light-hearted) so that I can keep tabs on ups and downs and graduate the voice of the story into a consistent diversity of mood or feelingstates. I also embellished the summaries with  theme-related developments and character quirks or relationships I am hoping to keep tabs on. I hope this helps give you an idea of what Scrivener offers you to enhance the writing and editing process. Thanks.

you were. i was

you were seeking (someone after work) you were. i was a little something to look at (we were young) i was, on that night (following no one) awake in a different way, unusually done up (tryin to get a charge in the) senseless world (with us), pretty preloaded (bound to be impulsive) both of us and tight (lonely maybe but not needing nothing) that night.

you were.
i was

i was seeking (for so long comin up empty), going home alone (without finding anyone) you were traveling backward (to remember the past) insincerely, we spoke in whispers (it was the lies in your eyes) i knew, your pain (you were)
i was

breathless at first
some difficulty and all alone (just imagine), you gave me someone to envision (someone who could care when caring was all was asked and running a shocking deficit) being with (being with you) and  you were. i was.

we were somethin (material) random. of a sudden (indebted) rolled pinner of a joint. tight (like that). god is good. baked into the bread. wholesome (hearted) and not having to speak (talking about it was always so terrible anyway and made us feel bad about ourselves) was a gift we both were given. you were. i was

something special is about to go off
and may we make (us) last
as long as we
possibly
can

light in august and shredded mail

The guitar. The bicycle. The running shoes. The webcam. The laptop. The unopened mail. The opened mail. The shredded mail. It's August and sure enough I risk being overexposed again. Doesn't take much nowadays. I do my best work predawn. And I'm sorry to the ones I love whose lives are not yet settling with the dust. There's little chance I will be able to open my doors to let you in, this month. 

August and the light cannot be intimidated by glass of any thickness. From a distance I see (and even feel) your struggle, for it only takes a few words or an image to convey. Maybe you want to stand before me so I can see and know more, but what good would it do? We both know I am not the solution to your troubles, though I may make a petty salve. Triple antibiotic. I offer my heart, my mind, my spirit. 

I would so like to say I love you, the spirit of you, the best in you, but what good would it do? You should know by now, you should. Deep down I think you do, otherwise you wouldn't be inviting me back in again. I am honored, too. A few years ago nobody was inviting me anywhere. I was always tryin to be so hard and now I have softened again under the sun, how did I become so soft and hard like glass to light? Who am I to be a walking contradiction and how do you walk, this way?

August. I think on Faulkner who somehow captured it for me, or wrapped my sense of it with his own personal papers. He made August more real for me. There may have been others but I cannot remember. I think of Rodin, but only because his first name was August. I won't have any children, but if I had a boy I might name him the same, for we could nick him - Oggy!

We see no end to any summer in August in the valley, the light and heat will have their way with us through September and often into October. And some of us, what once was me, will see no end to misery, misfortune and pain. Nobody should be told they brought this on themselves, but if you have been there like I have, you also know that you had some part in it, and maybe even the largest of all the roles. For you are always there in the center of it, are you not?

Learn your lines well, my dear, and know you are not alone. I am behind you as well, with others whose parts are also to be played. I will take that deep breath from behind the curtains, steady myself and walk in under the lights with you in my own time and when the script demands it. Your stage presence in your own life is irrefutable.