These two poems by Julio César Villegas interrogate dying paradigms and the Self’s confrontation with all potentialities latent in constructing the thereafter…
by: Julio César Villegas
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I’d imagine myself seconds before a firing squad, subjecting psyche & circuitry into orchestrated scattershot with finality as my experiment. Legacy is when you let go of one,
& I doubt any last words are ever as effective rehearsed. We’re not here for this aspect, & neither are the .308 Winchesters factoring trajectories making sure I’m a good day’s work.
My price = their payday. It’s not about ego, moreso scalpels into its deeper tissue: conjuring tsunami waters to still them, studying what our trenches surfaced to light. Any significant catalyst can do: my firing squads, a stillbirth, a counselor’s fourth relapse, wildfires, jobs-turned-algorithm the day rent’s due, or maybe innocence of being unable to distinguish the words home and minefield as antonyms. I know the soul is louder than all of this, but sometimes I personally need to hear it. Summoning a hand to stand my whole frame on and force the reminder that I’m holy, an inconsequential molecule in the grand tapestry, ocean in
a single drop that Rumi speaks of. Electromagnetic, pulsing, asymmetric, truths further vivid than limitations of my carnal sense. Not the flash before my eyes, but the serenity after.
That’s what I want to know without a grey wall behind me. And the sun’s just as beautiful.
Primadonna in the ultraviolet, imagining myself seconds before the firing squad, knowing
in this scenario the guns jam, cartridges detonate — & today’s experiments have concluded.
Uzumaki
what dogma in decline, dogwhistle-dressed-dementia collapsing cerebellum parietal
frontotemporal parasocial classifications of one’s heaven pales in minutiae to our hells
ministry of mouthed words muzzled microphones manhood muted an insider’s buzzsaw butcher-blading sectors with one hand & the other dice-rolling economies into gambit
gamble of hegemony nearing heart attack world without order’s world not heeding orders
bruised schoolboy and a bottle rocket whether guided or unguided still finds its civilian
or holiday morning high-rise or or or to the exponential degree all accidents orchestrated
intentional is ignorance inherent is idiocy imitation of importance implication of insecure
borderlines imagined yet epigenetics are visceral the Darién’s visceral La Bestia’s howling
place your hand on the midnight rail and determine which direction the rattling originates
powder keg on the verge perhaps a populace subtly pacified this century something different
but human condition’s the same if every month for the rest of my life is called by one name
I know it’s a lie because something was there before this and the seasons still outlive us
if one room is not enough neither will one nation or planet there’s a supermassive black hole
where someone’s self used to be and the plural form of this is classified as administration
or absence thereof synonym regime desperation compensation for mirrors far too honest
bloodied fist in denial but now the scattered shards seem more truthful variations of void
morbid mortality of a madman’s mosaic raise the preparedness level of all military branches
deploy algorithms devise new atrocity wash rinse repeat even if the stains don’t come off
it’s what the camera sees not what the congress knows a conscience can’t sell to consumers
we’re the spectacle the strong ones the saviors of species yes the devolution will be televised
shared reposted liked talked about plugged into our personal public broadcasting properly
not propaganda of pasts but party of pride patriotism results produced now please purchase
our paradigm of makeshift martyrs and pyrotechnics for three easy installments of puppets
on either hemisphere there’s no mountains denial can’t scale nor oceans it can’t evaporate
it’s excellent in assembling orphans for poisoned flour lines they’re easier to pick off that way
we can’t allow locals a say in our business it hurts profit nor allow invasions from such brutes
vile hoards of these villains vagabonds bandits in swarms with their countries in their hands
while the country is in mine— now the question is who’s ready to play ball with the world?
Julio César Villegas was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico and raised in Essex County, New Jersey. Find him on IG at @saintpoptart, and visit his authors page here. Immigrants are beautiful, borders imaginary.
