portion of the artwork for Gary Sloboda's poem

Song of Disorder
Gary Sloboda

Living under short days. A brutal women’s hockey game made this one different for me. And a kidnapped singer who croons melodramatic ballads about her breasts. She said the rapacious will win on work ethic alone. Beat us badly. And I forget as first-person shooter games and table tennis distract with a cosmetic will. Choreographed desire to drown in the blue tide of the bustling sueno. Sliding on the ice. In circles. Broken bones and a deafening hive.

Gelatinous cube in the fish soup has gone cold. Can it reinstall my devotion to walking this wire? Tired arms focus the energy of air. Beautiful girl in beautiful tunic reappearing like rain. The alternative dialectics etched in the sound wall over our heads. Divorced from trees. The birds gone insane. Impeached by the sun. Where the pit bull drags a stick in its mouth. A wavy line of blood draws itself upon the metallic eyes of the dirt. A political boundary.

From which I fly.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 30 | Fall 2010