while my left arm limped like a acid rinsed maulstick, the brush thistle fur stood piloerected on an enamel easel, adhesive with etiquette. as if studying a misstroke, i lowered my face to the mouse’s and heard the speedy shrieking as if i were a distant jabber on fast forward. an impression piece, this glue trap is our starved selves. without shielding my fingers, i feel an engine through the frame and rinse myself in ticks sedated by crumb blood. like turning a dial, entropy leveled with the mouse for a second so it would have a moment to speak. the thumping fell asymptotically. slowly sense and context began to sweat through the mouse yelps and the language of mice bellowed, syncopated rhythmically in a foreign poetic crease. unrehearsed noises, list of mimics, maybe one of a lover, a parent, a gathering partner, a tail biter, a dying elder, a frightened child, a cannibal, a predator (as best the mouse could), mice having sex under the house next door; any potential proctor of judgement day. entropy caught on to my stopping heart and dropped me off, where the squealing resumed unintelligibly. a gloved hand reached for the brush and canvas, taking a knife for a maulstick.

 

 

jul12 – brennan mcmullen

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