Raffiniert ist der Herrgott, aber boshaft?

Every moon that rose, at least, the ones

I remember, made Lūnae, Veneris, what

named day of the week, so much less important

than the weather, sex, and dreams of tongues. And so

how do I know the words “lucciola” and “folletto”?

It all ended something along lines like these:

John was a perversion of his own ethics. The

most disturbing part was how well he knew but

Rebecca knew I had passed it on to Erik

so when she hit me she need no remorse feel

and Melanie and Basha made rites of the

nights we spent hiding from gravity's invasions

while Emily never gave up her day job

when I would appear, on bisat Sulaiman,

it would mean that I would need to be more of

human than ghost. Aradia translated (again)

between Providence and New York assured through

voices of Ionna, Elisabeth, and others

that what Great Mechanick there is, showing its

faces in improbable odds that I, right

then, was meant to be so fucking lucky

that I would grab a shoeshine on my way in

wearing really awesome suits and ties. So

when I won, Emily. But after that, Yana

the Russian, became the middlegirl of the

connection. She walked me down that primrose path

but when I saw the River of Styx, alarmed

I flew from the vice of the NYPD

to the Pacific. Keri and Ava cast

the spells conjured somniculum. Gain enough

to jump the Atlantic. Transcontinental

the runway stopped. I needed, really really

needed my passport. This sounds false but it's true

it was in the basement of C.I.A. How

much was that Great Architect willing to grant

favor me? That much more. In Paris I stopped

laid on a cemetery wall, laughed silver

like a child hopped up on goofballs and smiled through

red strained lips and teeth. The joke was soon over

So I found Gogol and offered him a deal

No derelict can refuse. He set me up

At Château Rouge, taught me the french I needed

– the most important words, “Cherche des Skenan”–

while mischievious magrebs purveyed goods and

I had not-quite sex with another, future

State Department courtesan. Elizabeth

outclassed me, but there was a long recording

and then! Gemma brought it all to presque-vu

when she asked me the question my life was, had

been. Before, Chealsea (Drugstore) and I spent nights

At the Chelsea Hotel. Breathing for her on

more than one occasion. Towers, their doormen

Never understood preferences for taxis

over nine-one-one. Elisabeth at least

came-to by the time I got her out of the

restaurant. So Gemma in the squat party

Châteaudun, Gemma, asking me if I knew

any way out of the fucking nightmare and

could I take her, Gemma who I would love and

“No, I am lost,” but I said, “I know a place

(Raffiniert ist der Herrgott, aber boshaft?)

Gemma, Brixton.” Portuguese junkie “tea-leaves”

like Manuelo and Toza who lived that day

and at three, darkness. Piss, the safest water

from cock to hand then injected in the blood

is, however disgusting, why I don't have

Hep C, HIV... Der Hergott saw me take

Gemma, and I, make wedding vows in Vegas

(Elvis long dead, was present for the rite). Mom

– honest, I wasn't hatched from an egg – said that

she couldn't come because it undermined her

against sister's catholic wedding service and

ten years had now passed. Some have been omitted

if not one of them more or less innocent

than another. I failed Gemma. Not for want

of will, or fear, or some lack of character

like. I was only given a score and ten

So I appealed to der Hergott-psychopomp-

top of my skull. This time I was transported

to the first panel of Tuin der Lusten

where my imminent death was given reprieve

in water and sun and all things that are good

for the soul. Boschaft ist der nicht. I would live

another day. Nothing more. Gemma phoned me

as I rode on a bus. I wasn't going to meet

her in Belgium and she wasn't coming to me in

Florida. That was over. I cried for two

stops. To be fair I shouldn't even be alive now.