#scremes

I miss getting a little drunk

off a dirty martini

at the place on hyperion

that smelled like old rain

while I write

sunglasses on

Ellis’ wayfarers

I pretend it’s 1988

you pull something out of me—

too much—

down thru

my stomach lining &

out thru

below

down below

to go up

below

the sacrum

sacred pit

the oracle cloaked

in her vapors

rising

from her pool

below

poets are like oracles

the gnarled forearms of olives

reached once thru my 

open

window

while my mouth—

sacred pit—

wrapped around that

brined pit

smoothed rough

by my tongue

feline tongue made to

scrape

at organs

& your mouth fell in mine,

deep gaping

sacred pit.

your black backed mouth, N.

your tongue inside rough cheek, K.

your fire zodiac tooth, A.

your reflection, E.

going down

down

to come up to flames licking

feathers floating all around us

from the geese

the eagle killed

& the wings

of the sun’s lover

sermon on the hifi

in static

and grace

sacred pit

that seven

lucky seven tattooed

over

the rib

you love to watch me argue

because I am good at it

and you are not.

you sit back in a pilfered chair

with a glass of wine

malbec houellebecq

and watch me argue

points you’d never think of

to our friends.

you are concerned with being liked,