portion of the artwork for Gary Sloboda's poem

Song of Betrayal
Gary Sloboda

Finger wave goes to a really great place. Follows the dwarf with the clipboard into the liquor store. Natural light colluding with florescence. It projects two sides of your being. No one can touch. She carries my cash. Enough for Modesto. Proclaimed the city of water because it has none. The population drowned in the reservoir of abundance and consumed the remainder with bendable straws. Powered by wings of carrion birds. The skyline shimmers in a wakefulness only felt in the ecstasy of catharsis or dream. You find a blade for a smile. Nasty sliver through which you emote and breathe. Paint scraped wall in the shape of your hand adoring the jacquard. An explosion of light that rendered us shadow. My mouth gone dry with the dust of stone. Invisible glass. PCBs. Left with a voice neutered like banzai. Detuned. To a grief shorn of its plot. When your hands slipped away a tooth went into my back. It repeats.

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