POEMS BY MILA D. AGUILAR

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Sculpt This for Me

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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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