Get Out

Matthew Minicucci
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Remember that the eye can be a bird, a basketball, a dimmed cab passing this thumb right by. Here’s to the nutshell, the image engine, so much information tap tap trapped behind some cloudy rounded glass. We might say transparency is an empty room; mounted head; pages and pages unfurling from darkened ledge. This yellow means there’s bile in the blood. This sound plucks yoke from crown; lips from clapper; bells from the all these lost towers. Salvation in occlusion; the ear’s stuffed buck; bark like some bloodied tree of fear, luminous and white. Catharsis either chokes or does not choke. Binary. On or off like your grandmother’s cathode ray tube; how she can never turn off the news. What about black on black substance; bow to stern to face the truncheon cracked skull. What about Chicago where fathers tell their daughters about bounding deer on the highway. Don’t to take your foot off the gas; draw the throat, cut like a buck left in the woods. We killed that deer, says the Sunday morning news. Don’t you understand? We just left him to die.

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