OK, I understand that the trailer for No Escape makes it look laughably racist and stupid and, as illustrated by this piece in Cracked, it’s worth pointing out its unapologetic xenophobia. That being said, I would also like to draw our attention to the fact that the hero’s name is… drum roll, please… Jack.
And now, for our latest self-promoting installment of today’s “Meyerhofer called it,” here’s one from my second book, Blue Collar Eulogies.
I am tired of men named Jack
locking swords with pirates, falling in love
on the decks of sea-faring death-traps,
traveling to parallel worlds
to challenge exiled Egyptian gods.
Always the same story—Jack
must come out of retirement to perform
spinal surgery on a crying child,
then lead a manhunt after stolen nukes
before acknowledging his feelings
for a fellow rancher whose hat
perfectly matches the color of his horse.
You’ve seen Jack many times
since he axed that giant beanstalk—
he has the best one-liners,
earns hegemony over desert islands,
wrestles angels by the throat
then saves brunettes from runaway trains.
He is the one who gets too involved.
He is the skeleton who loves Christmas.
He is the coiled jester inside boxes.
Sometimes, he inspires strangers to dance,
steal, lift things, masturbate.
That show-hoarding verb of a man
who goes through sidekicks like syllables.
See what he’s done to pumpkins,
forests, how he’s infiltrated every deck
of playing cards—bowing still
to the hoity king and queen, sometimes
the ace, but it’s only a matter of time.