Within the palm of Miles Davis From a 1986 photograph by Irving Penn You can feel the grooves all the notes created from exhausted breaths, of his lips chapped gold on his glowing instrument, gripping sounds trying to capture music— by coloring the air canvas with new notes he creates in the gust of improvisation, always chasing the rhythm that eludes him— under the sweat of spotlight, overcoming calluses, he reaches for creations exhale, when he blows, Davis loves the taste of inspiration inside his mouth, making out with masterpieces in the middle of his solo— with so many miles to go his trumpet never sleeps. Midnight at Newnham Gardens Sylvia loved speaking poetry to the sculpted boy and dolphin, splashing in Cambridge winter silence, as she moved her shivered lips speaking to something who could listen without accents. She loved to daydream within the snow globe shadows. Plath would make up naturally blessed Ariel verses and the boy would glow statuesque— frozen marble eyes would attract her night after night, not saying much ears open waiting to hear her sneaker footsteps, standing in front of her quiet friend was her favorite solitude, conversations sharing December breaths alone, when she spoke in whispered Winthrop, Massachusetts rhymes, Plath would beautifully melt icicles. Chewing midnight sojurn, Sylvia loved listening Trying to decipher all the frozen London voices— buried in the moonlit snow. Driving us, Floating Uptown Bluntly passing joints watching the street car, car stereo loudly imagines Bob Dylan between us, almost floating on the grassy median while on this short mind trip, you drove us Uptown on St. Charles Avenue, the trees are colorful carnival umbrellas, scattered with Mardi Gras beads hanging on every branch. As I reach from the car window, wishing I could grab one but as you signal to turn the car onto your street. I can feel my munchies kick in, remembering the laughter when we smoked out, it was not just getting high, passing me the joint, there was this unspoken joy of two buddies lifted, sitting on his couch listening to Dylan’s Man of Constant Sorrow, two po boys munching down on our favorite Magazine St. sandwiches, minds stoned sharing so many silence of moments— although I’ve forgotten so many NOLA nights, shows at Tipitinas, State Palace Theatre raves, free movie passes at Canal Place Prytania, pizza slices/ SIN discount drinks at Club Decatur— I always remember cotton mouth contagious, like howlin’ wolves lifting our spirits, joyfully, sipping bottled beers next to a buddy in a smoky room, with minds in the clouds, always missing the jubilant uptown banter, bongs of remembrances parking grins— spinning CD’s imagining Dylan between us, lyrically lighting one up, in an afternoon daze, with my buddy Keefer the high always transcends. Only the wind can truly kiss me “I was coming apart. / They loved me until/ I was gone” — Anne Sexton Some nights, I sleepwalk on the beach, waking up quivering, knowing this is where my often maltreated body loves to feel the chills rippling against my robe, titillating underneath, my naked skin. My face loves the way the gust could reach deeper, each breeze against my cheeks, the gale kisses wildly like no man’s lips never dared to reach— the wind never takes me, she blows inviting thoughts so cool, revealing the only time I feel naturally blushing without make up, just me— my eyes closed loving how much the tempest winds match each storming burst tempting so beautifully disrobing me from my inside. (If I had) Five Minutes with Marilyn Monroe From a 1955 photograph by Ed Feingersh at Costello’s Restaurant, NYC I would light up more than her cigarette, and her soft inquisitives smile. I would sit across the booth and encourage her not to only focus on silver dreams, attractions becoming only on theatre screens. Instead of centerfold, photoshoots, exposing more than skin, show all your body, volumes printed from the spine. Remember Sandburg, Miller, Capote’s gift? You too can expose sharing every imperfect scar, have your legacy so brave on the page, each line you bare engraved like a lyrical kiss. So many dreaming to touch you, why not reach out with words from afar? Reflecting your verses connecting so much closer, circulating each of your most secret fragments, pieces, crumpled ink stains see through markings; underneath your flashing beauty reveals the most captivating poetry a voice of siren, that star is you. At Marilyn's grave Still everblooming like the roses glowing on your wall, despite everyone who doubted you, those who could never see beyond your beauty, your life, a poem, like the most perfect rhyme, in eternity’s spotlight, Norma Jeane even my shuttering camera knows you will outlive us all. Bio: Adrian Ernesto Cepeda is the author of Flashes & Verses… Becoming Attractions from Unsolicited Press, Between the Spine from Picture Show Press, Speaking con su Sombra with Alegría Publishing, La Belle Ajar & We Are the Ones Possessed from CLASH Books and his 6th poetry collection La Lengua Inside Me will be published by FlowerSong Press in 2023. Adrian lives with his wife in Los Angeles with their adorably spoiled cat Woody Gold.
Fevers of the Mind 