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
Fevers of the Mind 