In a Normal (probably-pre-apocalyptic) Reality

My world is a bullet train on high-speed rails, imagined real on the lower teeth of a shark that swims in the gut of a space whale that whale-quakes every time a watching tongue speaks of the Discworld, Doctor Who, Star Trek: Discovery, or a copyright lawyer.

I write in a normal (probably-pre-apocalyptic) 21st Century reality.

My baby sister (by 31 minutes and 13 seconds) was raised by an obsessive-compulsive zombie and a well-informed pit bull wearing a used Siamese cat suit (must avoid breed profiling to live). My world’s leader (never my liege) is a leech pretending to be human under a sickening tarpaulin of inhuman hair and other ever-creeping inhumane traits.

I was nearly shot into suppression, during the 363-Women-Are-People-Too March, when a congress of righthanded men supported by a chorus of (most likely braindead) women aimed their assault rifles for freedom at 11 pit bull pups we had dressed in secondhand hoodies—the world is a cold, cold, cold place and some innocent puppies are born with little protection against ICE.

One pit bull was caged for baring his teeth during sanctioned manhandling, but every human being rebelled against justice being turned into a joke. We, the people, stand together to protect a way of life (all life!) that includes all.

 

My bones and thoughts and wants used to feel safe under the brown of my skin. Then, Ermintrude Ethelswaite, one of my nicest neighbors, began to iron her carpet while screaming in strange tongues, “We worked too hard colonizing our country to let dog people steal our cats’ jobs and benefits!”

 

I called the men in blue the night Trudy broke into my cabin to iron my bed sheets while I slept. The only blue on the officer serving and protecting me was in her eyes and the tips of her sun-crafted locks. The words dancing out of her mouth held the harsh hues of understanding, of safety, and of lust that knows itself to be love waiting for consenting hearts to nurture it into being.

“Fear spreads foolishness”, she said to me, shaking her head at the brand Trudy had just ironed through my sheets and right into the skin of my left inner thigh. “Fear-fed folly massacres nuts and fruits alike. None can stay safe in this wild ride, if all don’t protect all from all harm. Come down to the station with me. Bring a book. Post-rationalization is a real time suck.

SWAT seized Ms. Ethelswaite’s iron. But she has a permit to carry hot—none knows why. Witnesses said she only wears animal skins and sap bled from rare trees. Madness! I will listen to your words, care for your hurt. Untreated violence consumes all things. Garnish your book-bag with a healthy snack, or a 3-course meal. Madness is best battled on a full stomach.”

I reached for a mango and stuffed it in my mouth to keep my enthusiasm from kissing her wise lips in agreement. I’m extremely attracted to sense.

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the (not so) wee notes…
– the Discworld rests on the backs of four huge elephants that stand on the back of a ginormous turtle. In season five of Doctor Who, what is left of the United Kingdom exists in a ship powered by a space whale. And yes, Star Trek: Discovery also brings us a space whale bursting with secrets.
– this prose poem was brewed out of inspiring comments offered by Jonquil, Anna, MagicLoveCrow, Ms Misantropia, Hedgewitch, and our increasingly disturbing reality. My next poetry postings will add to this series. We must explore book burnings, secret writings, deer and bunnies, and bears, Oh my!
– oh, and in case you haven’t noticed my extremely subtle hints, my name is Magaly Guerrero, and I’m in total lust with prose poetry that shows teeth.
– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

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Rip Their Throats

White Trash: The 400-Year Untold History of Class in America, by Nancy Isenberg, is not an easy read. The experience left me angry, sad, with a mouth full of screams. It made me wonder if society will ever look in the mirror, examine the horror it has spawned, and take responsibility for the destruction. If you’ve yet to read the book, do give it a go. It will not be fun, but it will be terribly real… and it might put important issues in perspective.

I chose one quote out of the gazillion I highlighted, and ripped a short poem out of it:

“Rip Their Throats”

rip their throats, dear friends,
or they’ll swallow all our air
and shit in our land.
don’t suffer a leech to breathe,
you are not bloodsucking filth

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the wee notes…
– This is the rather unnerving quote that inspired the poem: “Poor whites are still taught to hate—but not to hate those who are keeping them in line. Lyndon Johnson knew this when he quipped, ‘If you can convince the lowest white man that he’s better than the best colored man, he won’t notice you’re picking his pocket. Hell, give him somebody to look down on, and he’ll empty his pockets for you.’”
– And if this poem leaves you feeling a bit sick, welcome to the discomfort club.
– Linked to Poets United (Poetry Pantry) and to my Diversity Reading List for 2017.

“Anger”, by Jelizaveta
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Cold Bones

Of the old-timers I visited once a month, Dulcie Marie was one of my favorites. There was something life giving that spread over her face every time her wrinkles stretched and brightened, to remind the world that a girl would forever live in her soul. The thought of her smile curved my lips. I was grinning like a lunatic when my feet crunched across her winter-kissed yard. I took off one glove, and knocked on the doorframe.

“Jack Frost has been having a royal blast on the glass of your front door,” I said, when Dulcie Marie invited me in. “Is your boiler working properly?”

“The heater’s fine,” she said, “just keeping it low. Last month’s power bill nearly killed me.”

“Your old bones can’t take this cold, Dulcie Marie. And I bet your lungs aren’t happy either.”

“Nonsense,” she said, “my bones are old, but my will is stubborn.”

I grabbed a small notepad and a pen out of my coat packet.

“Stop your scribbling,” she told me. “I don’t need that woman visiting more than she has to.”

“If your electric bill is too high,” I said, walking towards Dulcie Marie’s kitchen to make some tea, “that woman might be able to find a way to lower it.”

“Not without asking what color skivvies I wore last month first.” She had followed me to the kitchen, and was glaring at me. “Why can’t you be my social worker anymore?”

I sighed. “You know I’m too sick to do the work. Besides, if you were my client, we wouldn’t be allowed to spend entire afternoons trying to figure out if the truth is truly out there.”

When my attempt at X-Files humor didn’t lighten the mood, I started the kettle and walked back to the living room. “Want to restart the last episode?” I shouted at Dulcie Marie, who had remained in the kitchen. “We only watched fifteen minutes of the…” My voice trailed off. I had noticed the remote control sitting on top of the radiator. I picked it up. It was cold, so very cold. “Dulcie?”

She walked into the living room, leaning heavily on her walking stick. “I need to save my pennies. Times will get hard when they do away with Social Security.”

Her eyes got shiny, and my heart broke a little.

“Change that face,” she said. “The heat’s on at night. That’s enough.”

“It’s not enough,” I said.

“If that reckless man gets his way, then it will have to be. I might as well be ready for it.”

The kettle hissed. I walked back to the kitchen, teeth clenched, anger spilling out of my eyes.

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the wee notes…
– I borrowed the phrase “My bones are old, but my will is stubborn” from Lorianna Feenstra. The story was inspired by an old, old, old… (wonderfully bullheaded) friend.
– Skivvies: Marine Corps lingo for underwear.
– Linked to The Twiglet #5 (“a cold radiator”).

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