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

Bare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle

Cover photo by Paul Brookes of Wombwell

Bare Bones Writings is an extension of http://www.Feversofthemind.com . Themes we are Looking for Poetry/prose/articles/other styles of writing are for Adhd Awareness, Mental Health, Anxiety, Culture, History, Social Justice, LGBTQ Matters/Pride, Love, Poem series, sonnets, physical health, pandemic themes, Trauma, Retro/pop culture, inspired by music/songwriters, inspired by classic & current writers, frustrations. Artwork. Music, Poetry, Book reviews.

Issue 1 includes tributes to poets/writers that contributed to Fevers of the Mind in the past including Kari Ann Flickinger, Scott Christopher Beebe & Dai Fry.

A Fevers of the Mind Musician Spotlight on the albums of Marissa Nadler.

Short Interviews from the Quick-9 interview series with Khalisa Rae, Ron Sexsmith, & Shaindel Beers.

Poetry/Writings from Kari Ann Flickinger, Dai Fry, Scott Christopher Beebe, Paul Brookes, Bill Abney, Ankh Spice, David L O’Nan, Robert Frede Kenter (with poems about Lou Reed), Glenn Barker, Rc deWinter, K Weber, Robin McNamara, Elizabeth Cusack, an art/poetry collaboration between Lia Brooks & Phil Wood, the first 5 poems from Hiraeth Series by Kushal Poddar, Barney Ashton-Bullock, Spriha Kant, Jennifer Patino (with a poem inspired by Audrey Hepburn) and artwork by Maggs Vibo, Matthew M C Smith, HilLesha O’Nan, Lily Maureen O’Nan, Ken Benes, Jessica Weyer Bentley, R.D. Johnson, Ojo Victoria Ilemobayo, Norb Aikin, Andrew Darlington, Liam Flanagan, Christina Strigas, Lorraine Caputo, Conny Borgelioen, Adrian Ernesto Cepeda, Colin Dardis, Petar Penda, Helen Openshaw, Matthew Freeman, Christian Garduno, Eileen Carney Hulme, Colin James, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, Marisa Silva-Dunbar, Kate Garrett, A.R. Salandy, John Chinaka Onyeche, Doryn Herbst


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Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.

Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Anthology available today!

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

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

Here are the U.S. Links for Kindle & Paperback. Please check for availability for the links in your country on Amazon.


Features artwork by Geoffrey Wren, poetry & stories from David L O’Nan, Ethan McGuire, Tom Harding, Joe Kidd, Robert Frede Kenter, Joan Hawkins, Ankh Spice, Arthur L Wood, Sadie Maskery, Kari Ann Flickinger, ps pirro, Peter Hague, Lorna Wood, Benjamin Adair Murphy, Attracta Fahy, Christina Strigas, Barney-Ashton Bullock, John W. Leys, Amy Barnes, Jim Young, Elizabeth Cusack, Richard LeDue, Michael Igoe, Samantha Terrell, Lisa Alletson, Carrie Sword, Samantha Merz, Janet Beekman, Lennon Stravato, Catherine Graham, William Taylor Jr, Kat Blair, Adrian Ernesto Cepeda, S. Reeson, Shane Schick, Gerald Jatzek, Merril D. Smith, Jim Feeney

Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.

Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Anthology available today!

Bare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle

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

Panic…Attacks by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda – poem

from Free Images.com

first published in Rhythm N Bones Lit


It comes with the shivers, goosebumps hairs stand up, already rising, demanding my attention, on my skin, so familiar, feeling the invincible onset simmering, my torment returns, loudly like a kettle boiling over the stove, too late to catch my heaving breath, my throat clenches, restlessness invades me, unable to sit, still...gasping in blasts of hyperventilation there is no shelter, give me some refuge from this invisible guided missile landing inside my chest. My once beating heart now faintly pulses defeated by my inner explosions, with all these exhales, trying to grasp this unshakable terror, faceless gripping my circadian is out of rhythm as this constant worry becomes my monster leaving teeth marks, chewing calmness, devouring serenity out of my skull. This anxiety lives for biting scars that keep screaming Goblins, leaving so many demons like dragon fires gusting my wheezing breath, so many screams inside, feeling the burning of worse than the devil in hades, seething more fear underneath my flesh, even when I try to fight off this Evil, with the flashback of these lightbulbs keep shattering scorched thoughts shadowing me, as I try to turn off these intense little frantic voiced suggestions that sparks reignition of devastation, ideas keep coming back, return within my inner temple always haunted with more waves of sweats, drowning my voice, swimming inside this sea of darkness always leave me dousing in pain. In the dark, all those cackling echoes always surround, my panic keeps attacking setting off implosions, leaves me beaten, reliving all the faces, lost within unshakeable places, tracing my failures, storming the return of these unstoppable tears reawakens all my doubts that I've suppressed, as I try diving under these sheets, there is no cover for this endless ruination, I believe this agony will last forever, my chattering breath prays for some kind of salvation from my gripping chest, under my covers this cursing shadow always feels worse than death.

Before I Turn Into Gold Online Anthology: 4 poem showcase by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

Nick Cave Inspired poems by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

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

Spotlight Links to the Poetry Question

Nick Cave Inspired poems by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

He’s a ghost, a holy godlike guru

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 Craving

From 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 Cepeda

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.

“Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me.”
― Sigmund Freud