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

Since I get tired of putting up my bio on all of my posts on here. I will just periodically send this link as my current bio with any of my posts I have.  Poetry, photography, otherwise.

Bio: David L O'Nan is a poet, short story writer, editor living in Southern Indiana.  He is the editor for the Poetry & Art Anthologies "Fevers of the Mind Poetry and Art. and has also edited & curated other Anthologies including 2 inspired by Leonard Cohen (Avalanches in Poetry & Before I Turn Into Gold) and Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Inspired by Bob Dylan. He runs the www.feversofthemind.com website. A wordpress site that helps promote many poets, musicians, actors/actresses, other writers. He has self-published works under the Fevers of the Mind Press "The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers" "The Cartoon Diaries" & "New Disease Streets" (2020).”Taking Pictures in the Dark” “Our Fears in Tunnels” (2021) a collection of poetry called  "Bending Rivers" a micro poem collection "Lost Reflections" and new book "Before the Bridges Fell" & "His Poetic Last Whispers" (2022)  His latest book is "Cursed Houses" David has had work published in Icefloe Press, Dark Marrow, Truly U, 3 Moon Magazine, Elephants Never, Royal Rose Magazine, Spillwords, Anti-Heroin Chic, Cajun Mutt Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Voices From the Fire among several other litmags. He doesn’t enjoy the process of submitting constantly, however. Twitter is @davidLONan1 @feversof for all things Fevers of the Mind.    Join Facebook Group: Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Arts Group .   

II Cardinals : A Story & A Poem by Amanda Crum and David L O’Nan

from the series “The Empath Dies in the End”

1 The Cardinal (Amanda Crum)

“She’s never seen a cardinal,” the woman next to me says.

            I turn to her but keep my eyes down. We’ve all learned new ways to give each other space as we stand shoulder-to-shoulder, body odors twining like jungle vines across the concrete. I could pick any one of them out of a crowd by the smell of their sweat. The air is so close it feels wrapped in cotton batting.

The woman came in two days after I arrived, carrying a filthy two-year old girl with sweet fawn eyes. Since then we haven’t spoken much. Standing for hours, expending body heat to create a greenhouse behind chain-link; our energy is too precious to use up with words.

            She leans against the fence, chin tilted into a regal pose. “We used to see them all the time as kids, in the woods near our farm. But this one, she grew up on the water. She could swim before she could walk.”

            I smile and push away thoughts of all the things I’ve never seen: snow, New York City. The first smile of my own child, some future baby whose face has become clearer to me over the past 120 hours. My womb throbs, once, like a reflex.

            There is no room for that here. Let your mind wander for a moment and suddenly you’re climbing over the links, flying over the city toward cool, breezy freedom. It projects across your features. The guards can spot it from a yard away.

            “I keep thinking of all the things I want her to see when we get out of here,” the woman says. Her bottom lip trembles minutely, as though she’s cold. An impossibility in the swelter. “Do you think they’ll separate us?”

            I wish I could say with some measure of certainty what they’ll do.

            When they open the cell door I edge closer to the woman, curling my body around the baby. Outside in the heat a dog barks urgently; a time traveler from Home. His voice cuts through the din, a reminder of which one of us is caged. Still, my heart lifts from dry and brittle grasses, as a bird would do.

            “Hear the doggy?” I whisper to the baby. My reward is a sleepy smile, fawn-eyes illuminated for the first time with something like joy.

            Maybe I’ve found her a cardinal after all, I think.

Cardinal II (Raindrops peck down on a chamomile can) by David L O’Nan

A man, a rich desireless man, stands near the slick bridge

Contemplating that death is a dive, through a flight of thousands of cardinals he has to soar through.

If he wants to live, they’ll let him live.

If he wants to die, they’ll let him thrive.

A wonder if there is a cardinal for everybody?

I can’t find my garden through this armageddon.

I want my freedom, but my freedom is swarming in bullets and passerbys,

My freedom is jealousies and hesitancy.

My freedom is breathing deep and feeling messy.

I’m humbled when I begin to feel the earth again, once my body no longer wants to soar.

Raindrops peck down little pellets of water on a chamomile can.

I opened the door back to you, and you just shut my wings inside.

I tried to escape and you just left me high, fearful, and dry

I have to remember to become fearless and look you in that eye.

If I want to, If I want to, If I want to.  Trust my blood to move like it should.

To trust my brain,  to trust the spinning Earth to make some sense for once.

To hold my breath and evade the invasion of the addictions and the fumbling demons

Dropping bibles and passages on that slick bridge.   Here I am, once again.

Here I wait.  Will I have my friends?  Will they come and rescue me away.

What do you think I’d see if I could walk away from me”  doo,do,do, wa

Note: last line from Candy Says by the Velvet Underground

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

Paperback & Kindle version of Cursed Houses is now available from David L O’Nan on this link below

Re-published poems from Amanda Crum

https://amzn.to/3VRp8Kk Where Wild Beasts Grow by Amanda Crum

Poetry: Praise Jesus and Rockwell by Tony Brewer and David L O’Nan

photo from Norman Rockwell Museum

from the series “The Empath Dies in the End”

Praise Jesus and Rockwell

1 (Tony Brewer)

The gunshot of autumn walnuts

blasting a barn tin roof

shatters the quiet riverine scene

 

Blinded by watery glare

yet intent on staring down the sun

Certain of seeing something there

where wind whips up rapids

- but it’s water doing its thing 


2 (David L O'Nan)

I live like a retro bum
I feel like the ancient young
Praise Jesus and Rockwell 
Something left dangling like flashbacks from the last century
I dream in flashbacks.  Very rarely moving forward.
To face reality like a robot.  As we are all supposed to be these days.

So maybe I’m not a bully
Do I push and shove you?
Shake you and break you?
The glamour of reflections in mirrors never appealed to me.
I could perhaps just cut my whiskers dangerously.  Not to care anymore
How I’d look in your convenient stores, Maybe I just want to dance to “Born to Run”
Instead of “Nowhere to Run”

So if itch a little too long, maybe you’ve figured out the bite
Have I become that malaria embedding itself inside the bite?
Left my imprint  into your heart’s delight, not that blonde looker.
Not that Adonis that you call your hammer.  No, that regurgitated hooker.
The one hanging out by fat-whistled daddies with meth promises.
Now the local suited up weatherman says rain and storms are coming.
Maybe to cuddle in your psychotic brain.

The wind begins to gust, the walnuts scatter the yard.  Crunch after crunch.
The squirrels look at us with disrespect.
Doesn’t feel like Jesus here.  Doesn’t even feel like Rockwell. 
Doesn’t feel like the dustbowl, Doesn’t even feel like a sexual revolution.
Doesn’t feel like love,  It just feels like morbid hate.
It feels like crickets chirping like lasso whips to warn the martyrs down from the trees.
And break us into powdered ashes as we watch that American Flag barn burn to the ground.

Suddenly I see Jesus and I see Rockwell.  What good does it do me now?
Do they baptize us in renamed ponds?  Do they dress us up like obsolete Americana? 

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

Poetry by Tony Brewer : “You and I are Human Beings” “the Seashell & the Clergyman” 

 Paperback & Kindle version of Cursed Houses is now available from David L O’Nan on this link below
  
https://amzn.to/3VQudCI  The History of Projectiles by Tony Brewer 


Poetry: Spasm Dreams collaborative poem by Ron Whitehead & David L O’Nan

(c) David L O’Nan

part of the “The Empath Dies in the End” series

Spasm Dreams

part 1 (Ron Whitehead)

Waking up at 1 or 2 or 3am is not unusual
for the storyteller poet who dwells between worlds. 
Waking and sleeping are spasm dreams 
for one who merges with other forms of life 

as naturally as breathing and singing. 
The empath is fully present 
while simultaneously merging
with birds and rivers and trees and seas.


Part 2 (David L O'Nan)

We were slick and in love or at least my heart felt it.
I’d look into your eyes and see my gritty reflection.
A fire under my eyes that began to jump the floods for you.
You had me cast as the cloud, and we dragged into worship.

We’d sit on your crippled granny’s couch as a loving couple.
On acid we’d hold hands and breathe on each other’s necks.
The Temptations on bandstand dancing and singing their voices raw.
All the while you were on a curvy road driving with the leatherjackets.

They’d offer you the oven, and they’d offer you a night of kneeling stillness.
To shut up the salts from the wounds. You were given the clanging golden.
The wind in the alleys.  It was me still searching for you. 
You could never feel the crowns in my eyes.  Was it only raining when the Eagle flies?

Years I’ve seen and years I’ve died, innocently watching new boots bash in my mind.
Pollutions over gardens, I found Jesus and I found the rat.   
I found the tranquil Jill and Jack Kerouac in a Cadillac.
I found the ornaments on Christmas morning, but I’ve never found another you.

Spasms- as if the dreams are telling me something?
Spasms – as if I’ve been lifted over the crashing jets and risen into heaven
Spasms – as if the windows are opening for my old skeletons to creep out 
Spasms – as if the drink, the pills, the junk have replaced my need for breath.

Damn it I must be living in a dream.  Driving through prose in my maddening seams.
Strained and feeling like a mix of neglect and tears. The juvenile is now cracked bones
And I cannot walk.   But I hope my imagination never loses you. And I don’t know why.
I would always waltz to your newest abuse just to keep you from all those that recluse.

You were made to be their rattlesnakes in the newest slit wrist garden.
New scars to present to the pretty and the wicked to all gaze away.
Convert quickly to the chemistry I retain inside.  I could lead you to my glance.
Erase these strikes even while I’m old and vanishing.  Give me this last dance….
Finally..again
                           I guess the Empath dies in the end.

 A Fevers of the Mind Interview/Promo piece with Ron Whitehead, U.S. National Beat Poet Laureate 

A Fevers of the Mind Interview/Promo piece with Ron Whitehead, U.S. National Beat Poet Laureate 

Blurbs for my (David L O’Nan) upcoming book “Before the Bridges Fell” from Ron Whitehead  

Paperback & Kindle version of Cursed Houses is now available from David L O’Nan on this link below  

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




Paperback & Kindle version of Cursed Houses is now available from David L O’Nan on this link below

https://amzn.to/3gknC3r U.S. Link

https://amzn.to/3Tz0QTy U.K. link

https://amzn.to/3eNdUGi Australia link

https://amzn.to/3yW6ozv France link

https://amzn.to/3eKCozN Canada link (site is a bit wonky when I went though)

https://amzn.to/3yWJx6X India link

https://bit.ly/3s919ZN Poland link

please check for your link if not listed above.

read acknowledgment blurbs at link below:

Cursed Houses by David L O’Nan coming out next week!