Poetry Showcase: Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

Max and I at a bar 2 AM in French Quarter circa 2000

After our Tower 
brothers and sisters

Stumbled home with
car bombs shots without 

chasers exploding 
in their bellies, Max

and I sit, as the candle
small flame flickers

inside this bar, 
Houses of the Holy 

that no longer exists,
jukebox always cranking

Led Zeppelin, as “Over
the Hills and Far Away” 

spins, we keep toasting
beers, trading laughs 

grins, scenes of our
favorite Peckinpah

films, Max reading
passages from his 

puppy dog-eared 
paperback copy of 

Don Quixote, the same
book he carries under

his arm around
the Quarter, as if 

Cervantes classic 
is his personal bible. 

Inside the Holy, while 

sitting at the bar, so

many empty beer 
labels peeled off bottles 

we downed, glaring back 
at us as we giggle sharing

our favorite Simpsons
scene. What I remember

most about this night,
the Holy almost empty,

Max and I standing up
from our bar stools, 

stamping down on 
the wood floors, I quote

When I press down
on your shoes, and I 

say ‘hello, Mr. Thompson…
Max always responds,

In his best Homer voice,
I think he’s talking to you.

And we bust out in howls,
almost falling over drunk

against the bar stools, 
drinking laughs 

with a buddy like this, 
you can imagine scenes

like this only in the movies. 
Some nights I still picture 

us there, inside 
the Holy, the only ones 

left keeping the bar 
opening, our spirited 
laughter echoing all over

the half empty foggy streets 
of the French Quarter. 

Now that I am sober,
I thirst for nights like this, 

wondering, will I ever
laugh this way again?

Thinking About Yourself

Touch me from a far, 
reigniting our light bulb 

reconnection, like an idea
we share at the same time—

switch on, turned, to look
inside identically we 

remember eyes closed 
thinking about the way 

we held hands before 
dinner, after sharing

a spoon of cherries jubilee
the heat of our simmering

appetite as you delicately 
touched my forehead, finger

tips softly combing intimate
thoughts, the way your eyes 

focused headlights blinking 
intensely, your gaze shutters

taking mental photographs,
using the palate of your iris

painting, slowly undressing me 
with your sight. I could feel 

you mouthing touch me, while 
silently writing love poems, 

our lips were so close, longing
to savor your intoxicating

red wine breath, we toasted,
you wanting to unzip each 

layer of my tempting 
dress, skirting suggestions—

do you think about the night 
by the 101 before we first 

kissed? As the cars sped by
… our lips stopped traffic.

I See the Beauty in You

I’m having an affair with
your poetry. This is the way 

you like me, on pins and 
needles, it’s not easy to feel 

the world on the tip of your 
fingertips and not let it affect 

you. the trick is to go in and 
out of reality with no detection. 

Staying in love with the same 
person for your whole life is 

not effortless. When you feel 
empty, fill your love with 

words. Keeping your distance 
is better than losing your mind. 

Death is constantly knocking
and I’m listening. I’ve blocked

my own self to stop the voices.
Strangers on the internet feel

like long lost friends I never
had. I will always be a mystery,

even to myself. Toxic people 
don’t even realize they burn 

you with words, they think 
it’s always your fault. I’d 

rather be in a bookstore alone 
than talking to people at a 

party. I paced/ I ate/ I drank 
coffee/ I washed the toilet/ 

I paced/I hugged my dog/ I ate 
again/I changed one sentence 

around/ I’m mad about loving 
you. When someone does not 

reply to your message, you have 
your answer. When the sky 

talks to you—listen, it does 
not happen often. Silence

has all the answers. Do you 
still perform autopsies on 

conversations we’ve had long 
ago? I’m not sure if I’m sad 

or just in love. You must wake 
up and start over. I always 

thought time would tell, 
loneliness loves me, but it keeps 

silent. I know I cried once today 
so, I’m off to a good start. 

Whatever you hide has a way 
of seeping through the pores. 

You never slip, my mind. 

I am just obsessed 
with your words, that’s all. 

Cento poem inspired by and dedicated 
to the poetic twitter feed of Chrίsτίnα Sτrίgαs

Who Says Poetry & Calculus Simply Do Not Mix?

Each poem calculates instantaneous
rates of change in emotion, memory,

desire reflecting the summation 
of infinity, so many integral 

outcomes, poetry like calculus 
is the study of change, the way 

we explore within bodies every 
shape so many equations within 

the nakedness of numbers, the mind
solving the answer taking a nibble 

of pi—semi-circle the radius of 
a heart, incalculable without 

the formula of poetry—
one calculation of a climax 

will make you revel at this model
dialing your digits dynamically 

changing communication between 
each curve tantalizing observational 
equivalencies, has you wondering

about her flexing mobility, she 
teases flashing numerical temptations 
representing the poetic processes

already imaging a parallel composition 
she glows reflective calling her 

constant when the transitive 
closure exposes generating so many 

possibilities, when she leans, you 
live for calculating the tangent of her 

angle, she no longer abstract, distracted 
by the volume of her flexibility has you 

no longer fixating on computations 
of semantics, far from theoretical 

as an agent of expressions, her body 
of poetry has you eternally transfixed. 

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Adrian Ernesto Cepeda  

Panic…Attacks by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda – poem 

Nick Cave Inspired poems by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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