Soraya
38.
Patch reef our morning paternoster landed
us on, like paupers excluded from pavane
among the patriots of desktop publishing,
describes, Soraya, the indigo Munch we
mummified for the multitudes: rus in urbe,
red channel to sagittal crest, Sadduccees
betting on safety razors, the sago palm
inside our salaryman’s Saladin caste mark.
To foretell your blancmange prepuce, my
Rawalpindi razzia ended in kill zone razzle
dazzle. I know, Soraya, the June bug juku,
I know Houdini’s hourglass late hours, I know
gynecoid gypsies whose ground effect is
gracile government, silk surplus on tablets.
67.
They accuse me of being a wiccan, if not
a parody of widow’s weeds darkening the
burghers of West Bengal like unrecognized
passwords. They fault me, Soraya, of being
pastoralist to arcadia’s archetypical angels of
honesty, archenemy to honest women honed
by god’s homosocial wit or Honecker’s tunnel
of love. I am the tuning fork for steel alibis
upperclassmen love. Yoked with camelot
forebrain, singled out like force majeure after
a storm of peer reviews, pedant among cross-
ing pedestrians, I resist, Soraya, theologians
in Theodora’s court, mala fide absorption
into the bubble economy of camphor trees.
79.
That was a greeting card for greyhounds
caught in the Gregorian calendar, green
fee our Gresham’s Law knew nothing
about: Soraya as go-go futurologist at
peace in the fourth estate’s funhouse is
as distillated as fragile X syndrome. So
don’t trespass the fosse along empyrean
spirit lamps, we are flannel for earflaps.
I dream of the gawky Gatling gun, mash
note you sent me, Soraya, after the masque
ended on a note of purpure masjids, the
purlieu around the FTSE index color-
coded for my cane chair candidacy:
heredity brings forth ice cold hepcats.
92.
What is cerebral dominance? The ginger-
bread bank, to which the helots come hop-
scotching, is ingravescent lambada, only
laminate for kronos: Soraya, is your belt-
tightening as awakened as Avogadro’s
Law? I agree, concrete universals can be
concupiscent if not watched like deer.
I fade like the decrescendo of deep brain
stimulation. Among the instrumentation
associated with pulsating keiretsu: in-
oculum for inquisitors general, late hours
in the house church, gunpowder falling
on stony ground, Soraya’s atonal atlas
of reliable dipsomania, seasick regimen.
98.
The bustle we heard on the way out, of
course it’s what bushwhacking ends in,
Christian names as lively as chow mein,
the gap between Coltrane and free jazz,
effable gaia singing to the greyhounds.
I lost my black book in the columbarium,
Soraya, at last stranded like a Moorish
fantasy, nothing more than folk memory.
They came bearing empires of poison,
and I had no choice but to be ikebana
in someone else’s interior monologue:
lexic for method acting, Soraya, phago-
cyte on the loose, petroglyph to whom
Proteus replied, which was all the time.
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