Poetry, Vitoria Perez
i. windowpain_corruptedfile
does the machine ever wonder
if its memory is faulty
if there is a click
somewhere deep in the
old office telephones
their wires curled
round working fingers
round tired fingers
round hands unstable
shaking trembling worried
there in the air is blood
raining thunderously upon us
soaking our hair and running our
flesh slick with it, thick with
scabs thick with cash thick with
pus and tears and bone fragments
it is not what we do, not what
we are made to do, not what we
are supposed to do
ii. download.scythe_program:revolucionaria!
even the bones surrounding my eyes may
ache
their weight rolled around behind closed eyelids
these images never end, the
y are churned
from the depths
(Print!) of the ground gushing out
like the rusted taste of old, silent blood
old blood that gushes pus, that makes
way
for the sebum of the )insert))
past
to froth up
through the orifice separating
the planet{s plates
endless droning groan from space
fax machine belonging
to the divine
it spits out memories of blood inching
up the walls, leaving memory
lines where
the water had been still for a mere moment
pray now children for the
sake of your father
blessed blessed holy holy, sing they now
their changeling chants that summoned
them out
of the woods, on
hands and knees crawling
for the rotting fence, the burnt old fire barrel,
the old wood-paneled trailer that bore cuts of meat
cuts of meat and dried venison, whose tongue lolled
parting its lips - do you know where you are?
do you recall, or is this a fragment of a dream
an image cut from the fabric of the towel
that scooped up your child body, that let
you float, your hands grasping for the daguerreotype
that you could not simply pass through your fingers
it slipped away like water and
you wondered where home was
you wondered where home was
you thought it was somewhere several interstates ago
iii. [olvidandoelabuso.mp4]
ghostly mirageous eclipse,
magnanimous and fleeting,
how stone-solid are your eyes --
wandering, waiting, passing by
temporary vision, dug from earth
dazzling daydreams twinkle lower
down to this realm wherein the
last dregs of human movement lie
wherein God’s quiet, calloused hands
sculpt the dirt under his fingernails
into a palace made of silent mud, from
where he gazes into a painting and
remembers childhood, wherein he
could enter those old paintings on the
mantelpiece; perhaps that was a dream
from seven memories ago,
rolling in his mind like tired film.
lush green garden sits in waiting for
the third patient to enter its room
with its lacquered walls and quiet
bubbling brook down its center, the
patient sits and he questions his very
wellness, his very cure and very
diagnosis, singular to him and to his
singular subconscious, he stands
and he exits the garden with nary a
passing thought
iv. asphyxiation__shattered hairclip.docx
dark droning enters the silence
creaking of air conditioner
repeated hum of ceiling fan,
black dust on each arm
the thing remembers
covering its bedroom walls
in inane images.
creature’s mother bought her a phonograph when
she was somewhere around twelve
hazy afternoon, wandering
it has a radio attached by some thick black wires
that came from the attic
that came from the attic
that came from the attic with the hole in the
soft yellow insulation, you will fall
!
whole thing gathering dust now
sitting atop an old white embroidered doily
( needle needs serious replacing. )!!
It scratches every record.
the
room’s walls are wooden,
room’s walls smell of mildew
of old cloths and of old coffee dregs
the room’s walls,
caving in
somewhere in the woods out by the hunting camp
that old speaker netted in crosses
simply speaks forever, the voice of its master
(raise your hands in praise, children of the lord!)
it lifts its old song in a chant, a shout, a bellow,
a soft croon.
v. documento sin título
there is a black mantel
it belongs to she, divine
she, just and she vengeful
for her people she would
swallow the moon –
with her arms outstretched
palms skyward, mahogany fingers splayed
she unhinges her jaw and makes
makes telephone poles snap
makes eyes roll to the rosy
sunless sky, she is red she is brilliant,
she is pent-up fury, she is ancient
crimson, she bears the fruit of the
vine, and she crosses her tools
above her head, and she
lifts her hopes to the celestial bodies
and offers the planet to them
Vitoria Perez is a multiethnic, multilingual poet from Louisiana. Her work touches upon obsolete and aging (per conventional standard) technology, and the Southern Gothic of the early 1900s. It moves in and out of discussing mental wellness and illness, struggles for worldwide worker’s liberation, and introspection as a queer woman of color. Vitoria’s work can be found published in Déraciné, Réapparition, Expanded Field, and elsewhere.
Vitória Pérez es una poeta, escritora, y redactora multilingüe y de multiples raíces étnicas nacida en el estado de Luisiana. Sus obras se tratan de no solo la tecnología difunta pero (por estándares convencionales) también la tecnología ya moribunda, y el gótico sureño del siglo 18. Su trabajo artístico se balancea entre discusiones del bienestar y malestar mental, la lucha para la libertad mundial de la clase obrera, y sus introspecciones personales como mujer queer de color. Se puede encontrar Vitoria en los editoriales de Déraciné, Réapparition, Expanded Field, y en otros lugares.