FIVE POEMS by DAVID JOEZ VILLAVERDE
Everyday it gets worse.
We holdfast to old lies
Presented as new: trust
The process; knuckle down
And salute your betters;
The halflight of tomorrow
Will be as bright as yesterday.
The days grow shorter and
Everyday the worsening.
All of us alone and my
Loneliness somehow more
Important. My burden
That much heavier. And
Everyday increasing. I
Macerate my pain with
Significance. What of it.
I dream of waking with
A mouth full of dust. I
Suffer so loudly, even
In pretense. It feels real.
I write my name in the fog
On the mirror. I trace it
Over and over, outlining
My permanence. What
Else can I do. I look at the
Reflection I know as myself.
I know that the future is a
Well I toss my dreams
Into. That words have no
Meaning. That the reflection
Is not me. What else.
Self-portrait as Image Macro
IDK or IDC or
or another abrv. you’ll
call an acronym.
“Your love is a bouquet of foxgloves”
or a centerpiece of hostas
or something like that in
emoji. Or emojis.
You know what I mene.
Just don’t say parse.
Say something meeningful
say my lust is hole that can never be filled
say «hot wax is so vanilla»
into the camera—conceited & affectless,
your museum job balled up on the floor.
say: the selfie is a burning river
and I am not immune
this morning I watched a movie
where the dead came to life
& the past tried to devour the present
which was the future but is now the present
& I thought about how we fear the past
because the present is always receding
into the grave of memory
& there is never enough distance
between the monsters we were
and the monsters we are
Neoliberal Lament for Eating Cake
Outside, men are obscenely chanting ancient hymns, reminding me not
to confuse milliners with haberdashers, that these distinctions are important,
worthy of statehood. One of them has crashed his car to prove this point
and I’d agree with him if I had more time to think. I’d say I was an abraded
pile of flesh lumping backwards into the past century if my neck weren’t so
stooped. Or, I love running the ball off tackle as much as the next guy, but
when do I get my pound of flesh? I’m sure they’d hear my dogwhistles, nod
their heads in unison and tell me that I am a man that deserves admiration.
My rubbernecking neighbors would squawk and gasp, clutching their pearls
as I double in mass and annex their yards. I would tell them all this but there
is no time. There are chinos to be ironed, forums to be trawled, virtue to be
signaled. Besides I miss the blue hum of my CRT monitor, the familiar crawl
of my haunts loading. So I brace for threads to become ravelings, smear my
face with sheetcake, imago ever-attenuating, gaze perpetually navelward.
Facebook as Pedagogy
Share unsolicited opinions about current events you
don't fully comprehend. React poorly when anyone
questions your statements—these are now attacks
on your identity. Continue forming opinions
by outsourcing consensus, manufacture
consent through groupthink. Find the
polemic you identify with most.
Eschew discourse. Revel
in your piety. Count
the likes confirming
The light from the
screen is itself a
David Joez Villaverde is a Peruvian American multidisciplinary artist with forthcoming work in Moonchild Magazine, Ellipsis Zine, Dream Pop Press, The Fanzine, Mortar Magazine, formercactus, and Crab Fat Magazine. He resides in Detroit and can be found on Twitter @academicjuggalo