Warhol and Factory Inspired Series: Factory Made by Jonathan S Baker

Factory Made

No one made Andy.

The kids made dreams,

and Andy threaded labels

each as beautiful and cool

as Hollywood cigarettes

with image and style.

The label said Warhol.

The kids saw

that Andy was a vampire

and loved him for it.

Bio: Jonathan S Baker lives and writes at his home in Evansville Indiana with his two companions, a dog and anxiety. They are the author of Head Work, It's Always Been Like This, Roadside Attractions, and co-author of Fearful Architecture.  Their new release is Cock of the Walk, a collections of poems about penises and sexuality.

Poetry: A Divorce in the Gut of the Sun by David L O’Nan

Photo by Zane Lee (unsplash)

A Divorce in the Gut of the Sun

We used to be drawings of lipstick clouds
And Strawberry hearts
We lived in our diaries
We loved, we bled
Atrophied the stems from the flowers
What memories are left?
Imprinted in my scars
Come read them like a palm reader
Do you see the many awakenings?
Blurred out the moon in this desert heat I’m absorbing
Thru this skin, these bones
I’m still to you, no words for you
We’ve said all that we don’t mean
But now it is enough
Your masculinity is waning
Your bravado is short circuiting
You’ll bring your sour breath to the bar
Bite the lips of a midnight sundress and her vodka strut
While I’m in frozen depression
Children away with my mother
As I burn all our old letters
And I burn all of my wardrobe
The clothes I wore during my “trying to impress” years
I just want to swim in these fires across the floor
Shall the universe eat my soul right now, I’d be fine
Eat away the old regimes of barrels, bourbon, and brutes
Now in a shell I am
A dark closet that my soul is weeping behind
I stare into my imagined reflection and my feet become warm by the heat of my tears
Falling and puddling til my badly polished toenails just stand inside
And I don’t care
I am in fear still though,
You’re no longer here
You have the dessert and no entrée
I see all the medications that I’ve been given
Even more recently than before
More medication, less feeling
But no motivation,
and I know you are more worried about getting a fresh cup of coffee
And I’m going to have to settle on the old black & white photos of our marriage
Light that shit to flames
I have to be pushed into my old body, and cradle my mind, and hold me
Til I can shake away the disease of you


Short Story/poem The Ballad of Clay Huntley by David L O’Nan (from the Profiles of Ego Series)

 “Before the Bridges Fell” by me David L O’Nan Poetry book is out today on Cajun Mutt Press 

Available Now: Before I Turn Into Gold Inspired by Leonard Cohen Anthology by David L O’Nan & Contributors w/art by Geoffrey Wren

Bending Rivers: The Poetry & Stories of David L O’Nan out now! 

Bio: David L O'Nan is a poet, short story writer, editor living in Southern Indiana.  He is the editor for the Poetry & Art Anthologies "Fevers of the Mind Poetry and Art. and has also edited & curated other Anthologies including 2 inspired by Leonard Cohen and an upcoming one inspired by Bob Dylan. He has self-published works under the Fevers of the Mind Press "The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers" "The Cartoon Diaries" & "New Disease Streets" (2020). A compilation of 4 books "Bending Rivers" a micro poem collection "Lost Reflections" and new book "Before the Bridges Fell" (look under books tab in Amazon) under Cajun Mutt Press & "His Poetic Last Whispers" (2022)  David has had work published in Icefloe Press, Dark Marrow, Truly U, 3 Moon Magazine, Elephants Never, Royal Rose Magazine, Spillwords, Anti-Heroin Chic, Cajun Mutt Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Voices From the Fire.  Twitter is @davidLONan1 and for the book @feversof     Join Facebook Group: Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Arts Group .   Facebook Author page DavidLONan1   and goodreads page is https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18366060.David_L_O_Nan 

Short Story/poem The Ballad of Clay Huntley by David L O’Nan (from the Profiles of Ego Series)

The Ballad of Clay Huntley

In the smoky Ale House
Let’s call it Murfreesboro
He’s got the swaying hips of a murder machine
Slick backed hair,
a sex appeal predator
Collecting numbers,
spreading diseases,
I’ve known him to be a birdwatcher,
a greaser witch
Stepping up to women like a movie star
In a masochistic leather jacket
He runs up mountains without the fear of the plunge
A wind-up talking crash of dark caramel ale breath –
to a lost soft cheek
You become his stage
For all his radical jokes
Unnerving smiles
You become his surgery,
For all of his dissecting thought
Or so he thinks

A point from going macho to a drunk
Then he’s your neighborhood brute
A traveling circus riot
Wants you to become his scream queen victim
As he challenges all –
to watch his demise to –
being a bar wrestler,
A real Vaudeville bullfrog
And he wants you to be his dancing daisy
While impersonates a Rudolph Valentino
Now he knows to mimic an operatic wind
A gust of bravado to a riverfront
Stuck in a canvas frame,
from the beating heart of Ambroise Vollard
But soon his oil stick is broken in the engine
And the hood is falling off

From the Ale then the pills
Now he’s turning to the surgeon for good
Baiting you to a show, a one-man cult display
Like swarming buffalo gnats –
to a jar of Wild Maine Blueberry Jam

Clay Huntley,
a vivid swerving waterfall
While under his spell,
a master weaver
An electrician pulling all the wires of our bombs together.

In 5 years
He doesn’t breathe free
When lungs are wooden,
Set afire from all the tobacco digesting tumors
– in the Superior Lobe
Guillotining away at the Pleura,
becomes like Mayonnaise
A sick interception from ego back to man
Now as death awaits
Imagination and nature became the object
– of his lamenting eyes
He likes to stray the fields,
giving each bird a personality
Funny, how he never saw that in the women
on his pinup calendars
Time is a fickle demon
So, can we pray in the arms of what is timeless?

Honey-Texas by David L O’Nan (short story/poetry)

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with EIC of Fevers of the Mind David L O’Nan

 “Before the Bridges Fell” by me David L O’Nan Poetry book is out today on Cajun Mutt Press 

Available Now: Before I Turn Into Gold Inspired by Leonard Cohen Anthology by David L O’Nan & Contributors w/art by Geoffrey Wren

Bending Rivers: The Poetry & Stories of David L O’Nan out now! 

Bio: David L O'Nan is a poet, short story writer, editor living in Southern Indiana.  He is the editor for the Poetry & Art Anthologies "Fevers of the Mind Poetry and Art. and has also edited & curated other Anthologies including 2 inspired by Leonard Cohen and an upcoming one inspired by Bob Dylan. He has self-published works under the Fevers of the Mind Press "The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers" "The Cartoon Diaries" & "New Disease Streets" (2020). A compilation of 4 books "Bending Rivers" a micro poem collection "Lost Reflections" and new book "Before the Bridges Fell" (look under books tab in Amazon) under Cajun Mutt Press & "His Poetic Last Whispers" (2022)  David has had work published in Icefloe Press, Dark Marrow, Truly U, 3 Moon Magazine, Elephants Never, Royal Rose Magazine, Spillwords, Anti-Heroin Chic, Cajun Mutt Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Voices From the Fire.  Twitter is @davidLONan1 and for the book @feversof     Join Facebook Group: Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Arts Group .   Facebook Author page DavidLONan1   and goodreads page is https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18366060.David_L_O_Nan 

Short Story: The Shrines by Thea Prieto

jack o lantern with light
Photo by Max Saeling (unsplash)

Originally posted in Shirley Magazine’s Double Issue February 2015

The Shrines trudge through the snow with their backs to the forested moon. They
follow a single trail of footprints between the trees, a path leading them deeper into
the night and further from the warm lights of their home. Their crunching footfalls
deepen until their knees are trapped in ice. The wind in the surrounding pines expires
and every needled limb freezes in place.
 Descending flakes fill the footprints.
 The night sky clouds blind.
 Bare shrubs gasp under the snowdrifts, but the Shrines stand with their heads high,
faces alert. With their eyes squinted, they map the remaining footprints to an outcrop
of boulders a short stoning ahead. Hayward Shrine raises his oil lantern and frowns at
the rocks hove out of the woods.
 “Grant,” Ward shouts, “we know you’re out here.”
 The cold deadens his words, swallowing the sound. 
Paige Shrine reaches her mittened hands for her scarfed throat, her lips tight. Her
cheeks match the fractured faces of the boulders, pale rocks split from crept ice and
prying tree roots.
 “Grant, can you hear me?” she shouts. “Please answer me.”
 Frost bristles the forest crust.
 The pines are still and deaf.
 Beyond the gauze lantern light, cracked branches and black stumps cut the snow
banks. With wrinkles carved around his eyes and at the falling corners of his mouth,
Ward matches the shredded timber, the snapped twigs.
 He secures his gloved fingers into fists and braces his shoulders.
 “Grant, I know you want to be alone,” he says, “but we need to talk. You can’t keep
avoiding us.”
 “Is that you, Grant?” asks Paige.
 A smudge, like a dark spill, rests near the boulders. The waned moon shies behind
sinking flakes, but it does not stop climbing.
 “Grant, we know you need time, but you aren’t the only one grieving. We need to
talk to you. Your children need to talk to you.”
 The snowfall dies abruptly.
 The moon glares.
 “Grant, answer us!”
 Moonlight animates the sharp rocks.
 Grant’s body remains shadowed.
 Paige turtles her crumbled mouth into her scarf when Ward’s voice cracks.
 “We won’t get through this if we ignore each other.”
 In the darkness, Grant’s hands are frostbitten purple, his bare stomach gouged
open and packed with icy mud. His neck and the boulder face are finger-scratched. His
 nails are black from all his clawing.
 The lantern swings slightly in Ward’s hand.
 “It hurts you won’t talk to us — do you know that? We all feel terrible, but we can’t
help you, can’t if you won’t talk to us — ”
 Paige places her fingers on Ward’s sleeve, silencing him as she would a child. Ward
lifts the back of his wrist to rub his nose, to wipe his cheeks dry.
 “Don’t know what to do,” he whispers, bowing his head.
 Paige squeezes her husband’s arm and then knots her hands into one. She shakes
the single fist toward the boulders. She points her hands like an aimed prayer.
 “Grant, listen to me, you aren’t responsible for her accident, you have to
understand that by now. You were really sick that day — she wanted to run errands for
you.”
 Sleet covers Grant’s body like a shell, the film thickening. His blue ears are hollow
pits. 
 “Please understand,” she begs. “You’re still so young — you won’t feel this way
forever.”
 The tired words snap the frost on Grant’s skin, exposing new layers of raw.
 “Grant, you have to stop this,” she scolds. “It’s not your fault, it isn’t our fault, that
the world isn’t safe.”
 Grant’s jaw is frozen shut.
 “Grant, do you hear me — you aren’t the only one blaming yourself! I told you I
didn’t want anything for my birthday, you didn’t need to send her out to buy me
anything, I told you…”
 Ward reaches for his wife’s defeated shoulders as white mist floats out of the
treetops. A dim fog sinks into the forest around the silenced mother and father, and as
 their creased foreheads bow, the lantern light grows vaporous and thin. The boulders
 recede into darkness, the trees vanish, leaving only the strain of heavy branches in the
 wind.
 Their shadows dissolve as the moon disappears.
 Their clothes sag from their shrunken bodies.
 The woods do not blink.
 The mother unravels her heavy scarf and lifts her chin over her forehead. She raises
her face as one piece, tilting it back until it sits flat atop her head. With the crinkled
mouth, nose, and empty eye cavities pointing toward the sky, the scrunched chin juts
forward like the brim of a hat. Below this brim is a girl’s small face.
 The girl’s eyes are shaded by the brim, but the lamplight reaches her cheeks, which
are the size and shape of apricots. The almond-sized pinch of cold on her nose
exaggerates the blueness of her lips.
 Gracie Shrine cups a hand to her ear and listens. “Is that you, Dad?”
 Ice snaps. In the shadows, Grant’s torso cracks upright, his head angled back.
 Gracie drops one of her mittens and looks at it lying in the snow.
 The father pushes back his wooden face. Under the brim of the old man’s chin, a
boy’s square jaw tapers like a leaf, the downward corners of his mouth slightly creased.
His neck is slight and colorless poking out of his coat, but he musters a finger from his
soft fist.
 Will Shrine points into the swirling dark. “Dad, we know you’re out here.”
 The wind masks the sound of Grant’s footsteps, his knees crunching into the layered
drifts, his skin crackling as he crawls to his children.
 “Dad, I know you’re sad,” shouts Will, “but why are you out here? What are you
trying to hide from us?”
 The fog reels, bringing down an empty sky.
 “I know you miss Mom, but Gracie’s sad all the time. It’s not good to be sad and
lonely too! How can I make it better? How can I help?” 
 The boy lifts the oil lantern, staring into its declining brightness. Gracie watches her
older brother as she would an adult.
 “I want to help,” Will says.
 He twists the knob that adjusts the glowing wick, accidentally dimming the light.
The boy bows his head.
 “Don’t know what to do,” he whispers.
 His eyes avoid the lantern as Gracie sucks one of her bare knuckles, her cheeks wet.
 “Dad, I’m sorry I gave you my flu on Grandma’s birthday,” she says. “I’m sorry!”
 Outside the shrinking sphere of lantern light, Grant kneels, his legs buried in the
snow, clay pouring from his chest like wax. With his face hanging forward and his arms
across his cored stomach, Grant tries to contain his remains and hide the mess from
sight, preparing himself for the eyes of his children. He scrapes at the numbing clay —
both children turn their ears toward the sound — but the thick mud, his only offering,
escapes through stubbed fingers.
 Grant’s neck arches up, his sunken eyes evading his children’s faces now lit with
expectancy, even as the lantern wick darkens to a spark. And gazing into the pines,
Grant wills himself to blindness. He knows the woods will ignore him, will not speak or
remember, but he still fears without the darkness, the fog, and the blind layers of snow,
the ice will stare back, and reflect his face like a mirror.




Thea Prieto's writing has appeared in print or online at Poets & Writers, Entropy,
Yalobusha Review, Propeller, and The Masters Review, among other journals. She is a
recipient of the Laurels Award Fellowship, and a finalist for Glimmer Train's Short Story
Award for New Writers. To learn more, visit theaprieto.com. Author of From the Caves
theaprieto.com

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Thea Prieto

Warhol and Factory Inspired Series: Poem by J.D. Casey IV : Every Time I Eat Campbell’s Soup

man in brown jacket walking on green grass field during daytime

photo by Mikhail/luxstn (unsplash)

Every Time I Eat Campbell’s Soup

andy, andy, where have you been
there's a war in the hall
of hell on earth

i used your golden telephone
to alert our lonesome god

the call
could not be completed
as dialed

it got disconnected
when you left the scene

i think it was the first time
when the bullets hit their mark
but failed to put you down for good

you only died a little and
you dug the corset anyway

andy, andy, do come back home
tell god we need you here
i can't get him
on the line

soulnap basquiat
while you're at it



Bio: James D. Casey IV is an artist, award-winning poet, author of seven poetry collections, and founder/editor-in-chief of Cajun Mutt Press. His work has been published in print and online by several small press venues and literary magazines internationally.

La Voce dei Poeti, La Catena della Pace international poetry contest gave "Warriors of the Rainbow" by J.D.C.IV a critic's choice award in 2016, and his poem "That'll do Pig" was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by New Pop Lit in 2019.

James was born in Colorado, grew up in Louisiana/Mississippi, and currently resides in Illinois.  


Founder/Editor-in-chief of Cajun Mutt Press.


A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with J.D. Casey IV from Cajun Mutt Press


EIC: David L O’Nan is the Saturday Feature on Cajun Mutt Press with old storytelling poetry

https://cajunmuttpress.wordpress.com/2021/10/15/now-available-from-cajun-mutt-press-12/


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