• POEMS BY MILA D. AGUILAR

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    Sculpt This for Me

    Do not draw me a box.
    Do not even configure
    A plastic toy for me
    From some squarish
    Garish 3D printer.

    To match the madness
    Of our times, sculpt for me,
    Rather, this unimaginable
    Creature straight out of
    Revelation 17:

    A woman sitting on
    A scarlet beast.
    A beast which has
    Seven heads
    And ten horns.

    Oh yes, the woman is
    Dressed in purple & scarlet
    Decked in gold gems pearls
    Gold cup in hand filled with
    Abominations & adulteries.

    Babylon the Great is her name
    Right, and I know to whom
    You will assign her. But
    Do not stop at that, fool,
    She is only the start not

    The end of the living dead
    Oily writhing murderous glob.
    The beast she rides is what
    You’re after: Once was,
    Now is not, rising out of

    The Abyss into its destruction.
    Note again: Once was,
    Now is not, yet will come again.
    That “again” is now, fool.
    Sculpt the beast in full.

    There are seven kings.
    Seven kings, do you not see,
    Who become eight for a while
    The eighth belonging to the seven
    But destined for destruction.

    A little imagination will show you
    A bald head whose brilliance
    Cannot stop the ruble
    From becoming rubble.
    Oh well you are blind to the 7.

    But not to the ten horns, right
    Fool? They have not yet received
    A kingdom, & being a god
    You will not let them, will you
    Dork. But God says they will,

    For one hour, TOGETHER WITH
    And here take note again,
    The beast, which — do you
    Even remember, includes
    Your beloved Group of Seven?

    They have ONE PURPOSE,
    ALL of them, seven and ten
    Together, in giving their power
    And authority to the beast
    And that is: To make war

    On the Lamb. The WHOLE
    BEAST, dork! Not only your
    Ten heads. And this same beast
    Will hate the prostitute,
    Whom you too despise

    Because in truth you are with
    The seven kings, at loggerheads
    With the ten horns but part of
    The same system of oppression
    Exploitation and miasma.

    You, beast of 7 heads 10 horns,
    Will “bring her to ruin,” (the prosti
    You hate, remember) “leave her
    Naked,””eat her flesh,””burn her
    With fire.” Oh you will, no doubt
    For “God has put it into [your]hearts
    To accomplish His purpose
    By agreeing to give the beast
    Their power to rule, until
    God’s words are fulfilled.”

    But you know what? The prostitute
    Is not only what you’re thinking
    Not just the literal scarlet & purple
    But your city — the city you have
    Already, in one hour, burned.

    Thrill to my Willing Ears

    There is a trill in my ears
    At home. When I open
    My windows to the sound,
    Mosquitos disappear.

    The rare ones I see
    Fly crazily, unable to bite.
    Closed windows mean
    The itches come ag’in.

    It’s a continuous hum
    Almost imperceptible
    To ears that won’t hear.
    But it’s there, always there

    Issuing from tall willowy
    Bamboo trees that
    Surround me. They whisper
    Non-stop like the Spirit

    Of God, keeping the bites
    Of little demons away.
    But only from those
    Who would not close
    Their hearts’ windows.

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