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.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Don Kloss - Those People

Image
Those People   I never wanted any more than I could fit into my head- Dave Grohl, Monkey Wrench   They want a McMansion, with a pool and hot tub on 25 acres. They want a summer home on the beach at the Outer Banks. They want a house keeper, cook, gardener, and nanny. They want a Land Rover, Porshe Cayane, or Mercedes. They want the best private schools for their kids. They want bodies and faces like gods, and a bank account so large, the bank manager himself comes to cut their lawn. They want Caribbean cruises, and world vacations. They want to have celebrity actors, musicians, artists, designers, and authors for friends. They want jewelry that startles. One day, a chauffeur, a large yacht moored at a private dock, a helicopter, a private beach. They want to always be happy and healthy, and never die. All I want is a twenty-four-hour Taco Bell. Don Kloss is a 60-year-old poet, musician, and songwriter. He is a New Jersey transplant from rural Ohio. His poems have been ...
Read more

Jonathan Dowdle - two poems

3 AM Insomnia Perhaps, my darling, The most intimate thing we can do Is give another our sorrow, To be open, split, and vulnerable, Even while knowing The wound might not be sealed, But left open, and crying, The way a child does, Without shame, or reprimand, But merely To have the hurt held As though it were just another Part of us. Ache You beat until you bruised my heart, You don't get to ask Why it's gone black.  Jonathan Douglas Dowdle was born in Nashua, NH and has traveled throughout the US, he currently resides in South Carolina. Previous works have appeared or are appearing in: Hobo Camp Review, 322 Review, The Write Place At The Write Time, Blue Hour Review, and After The Pause.
Read more

Alla Vilnyansky - Two poems

Master Class: Cinderella Practicing Violin It takes special skill to acknowledge that almost anything may be mended. My mother plays the piano, beats her knuckles against the black and white keys—welds sounds together. Fingers thick; nails painted crimson not the typical hands of a concert pianist. Above her depicted in a Victorian dress—the instrument serving as her accessory; her captive audience. Who unhinged the gate through which her carriage, was set to arrive? (previously published in Zaum) On Lenin’s Mausoleum and Love After Jenny Browne Not every glance is capable of conveying all things at once: love, anger, frustration. I remember your mother’s house the inside of a ship. I know you thought things would be alright turning to sand, all of it coming down. In “Love Letter to a Stranger” you’re always you and I’m always me. A body you’ll do anything to preserve. (previously published in Scryptic) Alla Vilnyansky was born in the Ukraine and came to t...
Read more