part of the “The Empath Dies in the End” series
part 1 (Ron Whitehead)
Waking up at 1 or 2 or 3am is not unusual for the storyteller poet who dwells between worlds. Waking and sleeping are spasm dreams for one who merges with other forms of life as naturally as breathing and singing. The empath is fully present while simultaneously merging with birds and rivers and trees and seas. Part 2 (David L O'Nan) We were slick and in love or at least my heart felt it. I’d look into your eyes and see my gritty reflection. A fire under my eyes that began to jump the floods for you. You had me cast as the cloud, and we dragged into worship. We’d sit on your crippled granny’s couch as a loving couple. On acid we’d hold hands and breathe on each other’s necks. The Temptations on bandstand dancing and singing their voices raw. All the while you were on a curvy road driving with the leatherjackets. They’d offer you the oven, and they’d offer you a night of kneeling stillness. To shut up the salts from the wounds. You were given the clanging golden. The wind in the alleys. It was me still searching for you. You could never feel the crowns in my eyes. Was it only raining when the Eagle flies? Years I’ve seen and years I’ve died, innocently watching new boots bash in my mind. Pollutions over gardens, I found Jesus and I found the rat. I found the tranquil Jill and Jack Kerouac in a Cadillac. I found the ornaments on Christmas morning, but I’ve never found another you. Spasms- as if the dreams are telling me something? Spasms – as if I’ve been lifted over the crashing jets and risen into heaven Spasms – as if the windows are opening for my old skeletons to creep out Spasms – as if the drink, the pills, the junk have replaced my need for breath. Damn it I must be living in a dream. Driving through prose in my maddening seams. Strained and feeling like a mix of neglect and tears. The juvenile is now cracked bones And I cannot walk. But I hope my imagination never loses you. And I don’t know why. I would always waltz to your newest abuse just to keep you from all those that recluse. You were made to be their rattlesnakes in the newest slit wrist garden. New scars to present to the pretty and the wicked to all gaze away. Convert quickly to the chemistry I retain inside. I could lead you to my glance. Erase these strikes even while I’m old and vanishing. Give me this last dance…. Finally..again I guess the Empath dies in the end. A Fevers of the Mind Interview/Promo piece with Ron Whitehead, U.S. National Beat Poet Laureate A Fevers of the Mind Interview/Promo piece with Ron Whitehead, U.S. National Beat Poet Laureate Blurbs for my (David L O’Nan) upcoming book “Before the Bridges Fell” from Ron Whitehead Paperback & Kindle version of Cursed Houses is now available from David L O’Nan on this link below Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.