Another Runaway Bride

"We've got a runner!" "What?" "I say, we've got a runner," then Faye, the bridesmaid in a hideous outfit, the type with huge bow, and a serious style problem, she continues the meticulous bathroom investigation, carefully looks about then sees an open window, narrow, quite. And, the type a person might squeeze out, well, if that person fully appreciated a prewedding diet, that onerous system then awkwardly shimmy though, which would take a considerable struggle. "I say again, we've got a runner!" Of which, the flight eventually stops New York City traffic and drivers show frustration, agitation, and mumble words not fit for print, as well as words not in the dictionary yet seem quite appropriate to this new golden age of pressure on everyone, this rush-rush-rush yet slow decline into poverty, into a new world order, as if a coming-of-age story, a Erziehungsroman, Kunstlerroman or chapbook of the stark, cruel and miserable expanse of poverty, such as a modern version of the poorhouse, and maybe wholly misunderstood, and represents a noble experiment? And Faye repeats that message in one bridal shop room after another, as well as outside the front door both right then left, as well as in the middle of a busy city street, yes, during rush hour, as if a town crier in Times Square, "We've got a runner!" Or said another way, the world system that resembles a thriller, which gives the full impression of a corporate transnational surge, to gain supremacy over family and the nation state system, over that declarative theory of multiethnic statehood, another a novus ordo seclorum, a modern dependency theory of globalization, to dissolve real sovereignty, to create yet another trope to live by, create another construct in a shallow language game, a common literary or rhetorical device, motif, or cliche. "We've got a runner!" This new age ushers in an off-off Broadway show several times removed, a new-age version of the poorhouse, and leftovers from one great pillage after another, from another raid in what seems as if an endless series of raids, yet versions that often shift style, with a shiny new veneer of bling and label to trick the mind with an advanced science, with a special art form, quite, and one that has mastered the impulse of gimme-gimme-gimme, as well as the new and improved version, such as the science of addiction and obsession, that great frontier? Regardless, here and now, these rush hour city drivers make a considerable number of foul gestures best not described, as it would likely offend a considerable number of people, especially kids. However, maybe not most kids, as they may know far more than society realizes, and heard from parents, friends, school, media, and other aspects of the social net, as well as often. The kids see and hear a considerable amount of struggle, frustration, and criticism, as well as bitter polarization, and ever so certain, as well as the political, sly, and cruel, and quick to insert rot or deliberately withhold maintenance in one form or another, for an "I told you so" moment, "I told you it would not work," told you that a certain class of people are dangerous, such as another gender, tribe, race, political party, economic system, or other social construct, that type of narrow cast into space with a certain temporal inflection. Kids often see that strange toxic loop of an impossible object, of one impossible situation after another. And on average, kids might teach adults a thing or two; teach popular ways to curse, especially insult, such as burrow deep into psyche, into the conscious and unconscious, into das Unbewusste and das Vorbewusste, to seriously damage something, or disable various forms of logic, such as inductive, abductive, and deductive, really knows how to spoil a party, which might cause a jaw to drop. Regardless, the crowd quickly builds then frustrates, smolders, stares, agitates, says pernicious things, and the event continues to escalate with horns, mostly car. However, a bus driver fidgets, notices restless passengers, many of whom seem on a tight schedule and want answers then appear ready to walk forward. So, he smolders then honks the horn. Also outside, a few bike riders on elaborate theme bikes, the fancy type, each a maximize complexity, a rolling work of art honk the bulbous horn, the type these riders squeeze and it sounds as if flock of geese in the middle of a city. Whereas, another elaborate theme biker rider rings a Hello Kitty warning device, the ever so cute type, charming, and quite civil, the type that few people would find fault. In fact, they might warmly smile then glow, which could last the workday, as well as evening then on a pillow, and last a lifetime, yet not today.