Like a preacher
mad with a microphone
on stage black dressed
unbuttoned cross hangs
chained to his open chest.
Cave’s his name—
through his dark accent
you feel his plight.
With every chord,
the riffs he plays—
the crowd ignites.
He stands like a God
in this house, auditorium,
arena from Jubilee Street
to Tupelo. His British band
plays so loud they can hear
from the clouds all the way
to heaven. Even Methostopolies
loves to feel the burning fury
of his Southern refrains.
With Cave’s Northern soles
he prances and romances
while towering over his disciples
owning this stage;
when his voice rises—
raging poetry, bible verses
he spits out grooves of insanity
from her to eternity
some of his stanzas
will save your sins
with the rhymes, epic anthem
odes to Johnny Cash.
This son of an English professor
pens songs like sonnets, so sinfully
sweet, dedicated for the drowning
and defeated Cave will Nick
your scars as his guitar bleeds.
When you see him live
applause from his electric pulpit
and always scream. Lovers
addicts, tattooed outcasts
heed his choruses, spotlight
untamed. Mad like a preacher
Cave faith has him dropping needles
on vinyl skin, instead of veins.
Let Nick’s sermons and hymns
send you inside the skies
his church is at night
for the price of a ticket
more than a show
before leaving
all you disbelievers
definitely will understand—
as this singer extols
spinning reprieves
of his holiest refrains;
as each riff resounds
you can feel Nick’s soul
was saved by the beats as
each night Cave rolls his
tongue with the confessional
kiss of rock and roll.
Nick Cave's Spotlight CravingFrom a photograph by Ted Grudowsky
He sat at the piano, fingers
touching black and white
keys, matching his tuxedo
colored suit, dark tie and
an alabaster shirt stained
with sprinkling sweat.
The singer put an Australian
Dunhill cigarette, letting it
dangle in his mouth. After
playing a few notes,
he stopped, looking for
a match under the spotlight,
but there was nothing but
baggage claims, loose leaf
lyrics he scribbled in limo
on the way to the show.
As the singer fumbled,
in the front row, my balding
friend got up and hurried to the
side of the stage. Taking out his
antique silver lighter from his
torn blue jean pocket, Martyn
in his faded blue Leonard Cohen
t-shirt, reached up from
seats and magically lit King
Ink’s ciggy—Cave winked
and mumbled Thanks mate!
Looking back down, towards
the keys, the singer grinned
eyes closed, beginning
the notes to “And No More
Shall We Part” he exhaled
smoke— savoring the nicotine
on his lips, the music echoed
reigniting the quiet the halls;
as the singer played, we all sat
mesmerized, watching Nick Cave’s
fingers becoming entranced again.
Why Fear Her Tears?Why are all the women weeping?
…They are weeping back at them
— Nick Cave
Every night I hear La Llorona
grieving outside la Ventana,
I no longer close the blinds
or cover quivering under
How to sleep, how to sleep
Instead, I take in the chorus
of her lamenting wails,
and then una mañana
desperté to find her weeping
like a song spinning on
an endless vinyl trying to find
a place where her cries can no
longer feel dethroned. Cada
noche, I rise from bed and stroll
descalso barefoot to la concina,
reach up for a bowl in la alcana
cupboard and bring it back
to my bedroom, leaving it
under my cama mattress,
so, when I hear La Llorona
weeping, I make sure the bowl
is empty, if it’s full I pour
out the pain into an empty
botella, corking each one,
And when the wind does
howl and cuando el viento
sopla, bottling every sob,
I always save for her, keeping
Them safe as she leaves me
the sweetest of invisible beso
where her rosas grow wild
kisses on the floor. She knows
I am no longer afraid each night
I feel her medianoche refrain…
as I quidado carry, trying not
to spill nor leave any trembling
tracks, protecting every huella
drop of her lagrima tears.
Don Quixote Driving His Truck
Navigating their way
on N. Buena Vista Ave
to Hollywood Airport,
Burbank, CA…with
Sancho Panza in
the passenger seat,
using his iPhone, Don
keeps waxing quixotic
about directions, which
way they should turn.
Wishing he was still
on his horse, doesn’t
like how the truck tries
to swerve onto oncoming
traffic, Listening to Ghosteen
while scratching every
Nick and scar on his chin
following his inner Cave
imagination, picturing
bright horses, unholy Jubilee
street corner spirits standing in
front of the Jesus graffiti on
the Hollywood sign, Don
loves pushing the sky away
past the skeleton tree,
as another airliner lifts
off above them, Sancho
says go ahead, let’s take
the fork and see where
the road leads us towards
our latest mapquest, seeing
the fringy lunatic gaze on
Quixote’s wandering eye,
Don pushes down on
the pedal like he’s galloping
on his favorite caballo, Yes,
derecho, my friend, no longer
lost, with the windows rolled
down, the maniacal driver roars
it is time we become legends again. Before I Turn Into Gold Online Anthology: 4 poem showcase by Adrian Ernesto CepedaA Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Adrian Ernesto Cepeda
Bio: Adrian Ernesto is the author of Flashes & Verses… Becoming Attractions from Unsolicited Press, Between the Spine from Picture Show Press and La Belle Ajar & We Are the Ones Possessed from CLASH Books and Speaking con su Sombra with Alegría Publishing.
His poetry has been featured in Harvard Palabritas, Glass Poetry: Poets Resist, Cultural Weekly, Yes, Poetry, Frontier Poetry, The Fem, poeticdiversity, Rigorous, Luna Luna Magazine, The Wild Word, The Revolution Relaunch and Palette Poetry.
Adrian lives with his wife and their adorably spoiled cat Woody Gold in Los Angeles.
“Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me.”
― Sigmund Freud
Outside a café table
somewhere in Los Feliz,
the poet in his vintage blue
suit with his fedora tilted
over to keep the LA sun
from hindering his already
wrinkled skin. While sipping
a rare blend of European tea,
I notice the way he flicks
his cigarette ashes into the air,
as he, slyly grins, Cohen
waves me over, “You must
be a poet.” he whispers
in his deepest voice.
“I can tell…” he says,
as I sit down, I stammer:
“I love the way you smoke
that cigarette…” Glancing
back at me, through his mirror
shades, I picture Leonard
delightfully giggling,
“Each ash flicked
is my way…” he begins to say
while taking a giant drag
of his already vanishing
cigarette, he declares:
of thanking her for the gifts
that came like a seductive
prayer” like an expressionistic
memory filled with poetic
smoke, as his aura clings—
Leonard disappears
4 AM rewakens like Leonard Cohen
He wakes up early as darkness
shadows at the monastery in
the Los Angeles mountains,
peaks of monks chanting,
even amid his resilient vows
Leonard sparks lighting her
cigarettes with his mind
in the dark, blinking back
his eyes begin to sing, remembering
her lips ready for wordless
conversations flashing back
from the spotlight so smoky
she returns… again and again,
coming like a reimagined passion
play, the roles between the sheets,
bodies of poetry believe they
were more than making, recreating
love. Before their dance climaxed
and he woke up alone, only
her ashes remain, flickering
in his mind, she arrives before
the light of morning, she reaches
inside reawakening the match
between his half-closed eyes,
the poet exhales, reliving
the stars from their last night
together, her drags rise from
the floor, merging with shadows
even more ashes from her
smokiest flame this Lady
Midnight reappears—glimmering
candles ripple as his glowing skin
loves to remember every space
she loved to explore.
She asked, why Leonard Cohen preferred his walls, empty and white?
When he glares, in between
sips of wine, Beaujolais 62,
he loves imagining movies
emotion pictures from his
imagination coming alive
his eyes, the blinking
projector focusing
daydreams, each scene
becomes a poem, the pen
and paper on the table,
always there to recreate
lines from the memoria
verses he transcribed
just by sitting starting
at the walls, never white
and empty, to Cohen’s
eyes they filled up
painting his mind
with colors, resurrected
focusing her glow Marianne’s
body naked, wires filled
with birds chirping waves
of laughter, Hydra isle reawakening
morning embodies the fantasies
from his favorite shadow
play, his mind dancing
with the sun, Leonard
loved watching his
imagination rhymes
coming into light.
The Chills
Standing in the vacant
kitchen in his newly
inherited home, Adam
recalls the last night
together drinking as
father and son, asking
the poet where he could find
the last bottle of Tequila.
Opening the fridge, he
remembers discovering one
of his father’s holy Cohen
notebooks, rhymes
frozen inside with so many
little freezer burning icicle
crystals on every page.
Feeling the cold from
the fridge, he doesn’t
close the door, the son,
Adam wants to stay here
and inhale the freezing steam
inhaling the verses chilled
by his father, wanting to
be thawed out waiting
for the voice of The Flame
deep dark smoking to reappear
reliving the last moment
discovering the last notebook
his father the Poet—left with
with the bottles and ice cubes,
knowing each stanza inside
he would know the stranger
behind the father, with even
one poem could he discover
a line would that we answer
so many lyrical labyrinths
melting so many paradoxes
glimmering inside. The Poet
now gone, the house is even
colder. But as Adam finds
the tequila bottle with his
father’s fingerprints back
in the fridge, he clutches it
and pours one last shot,
although this “lost” notebook
has only half-filled in
elegiac treasures, with
a toast he can still
feel the chills, as Adam
drinks, no chaser tears,
missing Leonard the Poet
his father, the son declares—
“I wish I knew him better.”
A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Adrian Ernesto Cepeda
Bio: Adrian Ernesto is the author of Flashes & Verses… Becoming Attractions from Unsolicited Press, Between the Spine from Picture Show Press and La Belle Ajar & We Are the Ones Possessed from CLASH Books and Speaking con su Sombra with Alegría Publishing.
His poetry has been featured in Harvard Palabritas, Glass Poetry: Poets Resist, Cultural Weekly, Yes, Poetry, Frontier Poetry, The Fem, poeticdiversity, Rigorous, Luna Luna Magazine, The Wild Word, The Revolution Relaunch and Palette Poetry.
Adrian lives with his wife and their adorably spoiled cat Woody Gold in Los Angeles.
Adrian Ernesto Cepeda
poetnotarockstar@gmail.com
www.AdrianErnestoCepeda.com
twitter.com/PoetNotRockStar
instagram.com/thepoetnotarockstar/
facebook.com/poetnotarockstar/
Fevers of the Mind 