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
Fevers of the Mind 