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Pre-Bagged Game Pieces: An Escape
Using up the remaining TP to feed a bonfire started over
parlor floor, he opts to wipe his ass with bank statements
and instructional manuals, while they (the bed, cupboards,
dressers, chairs) stage a pseudo-getaway as a cry for
attention that falls short of effective like a yard sale thrown
within a dumpster.
"Catch!" they say, so he unsheaths his sword, and slices
the fucker in two. Soon after, he apologizes for having mis-
took a football for monthly payments. The fans scuff their
hooves in rage after hearing commands to do so from their
sattle-riding employers and referees.
He sits, that is, in one of several discarded musical chairs
while a rocket-powered one advances several treadmill
rotations.
Enough! The escape plan begins. Then a ceiling fan huffs
a tempest, a window hurls forth menacing shards, a drape
shape-shifts into a jellyfish, a cabinet releases a battalion
of starved bats, a chandelier swings with rabid ape arms,
and a wrecking ball collapses a corner. Still, he escapes.
That is, into street lights fixated on red, acid-boiling pot-
holes, paralyzing car horns, severed power lines whipping
invisible bulls, gas pumps turned into time bombs, lamp
posts crashing to and fro like enormous fly swatters, run-
away hyenas, and even dumpsters mobilizing like vicious
bumper cars. Still, he escapes.
He rips out of his assigned stage costume and walks along-
side a wilderness too uncivilized to ever pre-bag its own
game pieces.
