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From Louisiana to Argentina and Back

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


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


for the sebum of the )insert))


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.  


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.


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