Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

When Björk Met Attenborough

Inside strolling admiring the walls
British Natural History Museum
pairing the arty, surreal
and twistedly gifted Icelandic
musician hair tied up with little
rubber-band curls walking
with a knighted British national
treasure: Sir Richard director
sharing their admiration of Planet
Earth’s most treasures while
Exchanging mind-speak
on the biology of the human voice.
The human larynx makes more sounds
than it needs for language. Actually,
singing is more fundamental to us
than speaking; Attenborough volleys
—with every step, she is turning up
the sound of each hanging  art work.
Hearing new voices framing
hyperballads, she loves unraveling
their beauty socially speaking 
aloud while strolling through galleries—
like seashell at the beach, the singer
loves putting her ears to each mounted
brushstroke; heeding advices
from these framed voices,
like an alarm call to her spirit,
this Knight can see her grinning:
So we were born free jazz singers,
but we're all just chatting away…
Björk responds feels imagination
splashing as these pallets of poetry
surround. In between their silences
brushing more rhythms
whispering softer
putting her ears to these pieces
listening to every color of their sound,
now she’s conversing with canvases,
her ears growing closer
these paintings aloud.




Tears don’t run down your cheeks in space

Still adjusting to the floating in zero g.
I just flipped a plastic bag of NASA corn
upside down,
dumping out kernels,
watching every niblet soar flavorless—
atoms floating into the Cosmos;
just wish Neil Degrasse Tyson was behind me
to narrate my hungering hilarity. Time is

always hanging above, keeping me awake.
These lonely stars are faceless angels,
shining and eternally so moving
that even the paparazzi could never erase
the way cielo clouds and red desert meet the ocean,
naked bodies melting together
as milky chocolate cravings burns
into my famished mind.
Among the beautiful galaxy canvas

I still feel tiny and shallowly misplaced.
No matter how hard I pray,
helmet hair dandruff clings to this wrinkling face.
Guess it’s true what tired eyes say…
no one can hear you dream within this sleepless spinning.
outside my window, the universe screams silence.
Why am I always hearing rockets red glaring
inside my personal space?

for Reid Wiseman 



Adrian Ernesto Cepeda is an L.A. poet whose work appears in the new True Romance Poems collection, 1000 Tankas for Michael Brown, The Lake Poetry, Edgar Allen Poet Journal # 2, Fukushima Poetry Anthology, The New Verse News, San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, Spilt Ink Poetry, Luna Luna Magazine’s Latino Poetry Project, Love Poetry Lovers, ZO Magazine, Oddball Magazine, The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society, Men's Heartbreak Anthology, Purrfect Poetry Anthology and in the soon to be released Poetry in Motion’s collection Poems to Fuck to. He is currently enrolled in the MFA Graduate program at Antioch University in Los Angeles.

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