The Truth-Telling Jacket

Greetings, humans. I’ve taken a page out of HRH’s book (if you’ve yet to meet that kitty, you should swing by She Who Seeks). I’m Magaly’s Muse. “She is sleeping right now. Shh!” You might not know this, but my Writer is disgusted by the news. Moi? I am obsessed with it. So… while she slumbers, I surf through real reports that taste disturbingly dystopian. Last week, I read about “a lady” in a truth-telling jacket.

 

This is exactly what happened:

A naturalized U.S. citizen (suffering from selective memory loss) was photographed right after a reporter from Hooey! Magazine asked her, “Is it true that your husband is a dementor wearing human skin?”

The lady seemed to be struggling with the complexity of the inquiry, phrases like Can you define ‘human?’ and ‘Must all of my husband’s hair be technically of this world?’ popped out of her eyeballs.

The reporter wasn’t sure how to proceed. His editor didn’t clear him to discuss popping thoughts of alien hair. He was about to say something nice about the lady’s attire, mostly to stole, but a collective gasp uttered by the sea of reporters standing behind the lady shut him up.

“She’s wearing a Truth-Telling Jacket!” the crowd shouted as one voice.

As the lady placed a hand over the spot where her heart should’ve been and turned to smile at the crowd, the reporter was able to read the clear message spelled by the truth-telling fabric: ‘I really don’t care. Do U?’

I’ve been following this reporter for some time now. He isn’t known for his sentimentality. Still, his eyes were shining, when he said, “Love like this is hard to find. Human or not, those two are made for each other.”

And I think he is right. The lady and her alleged human-skin-wearing-dementor must love each other deeply. Why else would she ever wear fabric that screams her true feelings into the world, regardless of how despicable said feelings might be?

His own show of love isn’t far behind. After a team of ornithologists explained to him that humanity tweets loudest when horrors threaten an innocent soul, he created a caring camp where he isolates children from parents. This isn’t done out of cruelty, of course. He cares hugely. He only wants to study the adults’ emotions at their rawest, in order to mimic their behaviors and become more humane for love.

Many people—especially those who find it hard to breathe through the happiness-sucking fog that follows the couple around—care very much about this issue. And they, too, are wearing truth-telling jackets.

image borrowed from Pearl Jam

 

posted by Magaly’s Muse

This is the work of a make-believe being who suspects someone got drunk and burned the barrier between news, reality, and politics. Names, characters, jackets, events, places, incidents… are either the products of said being’s imaginative whims or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events or persons (living or dead, undead, thought to be undead, or known to be inhuman) is purely coincidental. Well… except the dementors. The dementors are real. Damn you, Dolores!

 

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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