It was typical of Marlon to enter the world upside down
by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda
It's all in his eyes, full of blues and kind of gray; in The Godfather,
the actor may not have remembered his lines, in fact he read them from
billboards but he always knew what to say and how to shine with a wrinkle
in his sightline as Coppola's camera shined action, he was always working
for his shot; Marlon believed an actor was one who uncovers actions through
the secrets of the words. This contender, often felt second best, questioning his
gift when the papers claimed, How the hell could an actor like that come from
Omaha, Nebraska? This thespian felt his best craft was stalled on a Streetcar
Named Desire or stuck somewhere On the Waterfront. He could take a dive,
convinced he could feel the sweat and channel every breath of an already
beaten boxer or even a seductive washed up singer. Sometimes that's all
it ever took; one swing from his inner right hook like in Last Tango in Paris,
in that French room with only one single look, exposing himself naked; want
to see this master thespian lose his fucking mind, that's why they never shot
the actor from behind. You would find him with film scripts, eyeglasses over
his head, always changing color depending on the roll, it was always for character,
losing himself on the screen, trying to forget his career was what he self proclaimed
a bum's life. Acting is an illusion, the actor once declared. The principal benefit
acting has afforded me is the money to pay for my psychoanalysis. I remember
seeing the actor in Don Juan DeMarco, one of his greatest roles, the actor
played a shrink married to Faye Dunaway. One of my favorite scenes is when
the couple are in bed after sex, tossing popcorn into each others mouths. So playfully
intimate under the sheets with this siren, the actor still was so large on the screen. So
typical of Marlon to exit the stage, one of his last and most famous characters that
played best from bed. He went into hiding behind his appetite for self-destruction,
so many pounds took the place of the layers, the face he played The Brave in Johnny
Depp's first and only directorial debut. Because of the actor his performance like the film
was left unseen on the cutting room floor. Instead of walking away the thespian sat
alone, feeling dethroned and burned out like flammable celluloid, haunted by the
gift of his own Streetcar presence. Forget the bed, the actor never got up from the couch,
casting himself as the outcast, this heavyweight champion of drama, smashing his mask
- leaving no traces of the craft that had once found him; Marlon saw the change in his
own creation, watching a man turn into another weighted stranger, the hunger that once
fed the actor forced Brando to dream of his once cinematic life in The Young Lions as
The Wild One who literally sat down, crushing his most famous acting crown. He would
often stare at his own reflection in front of aging cracked mirrors. This thespian would try
to remind the shadow of his former self by tossing off old movie lines, that would ignite
his flickering gift. Brando could magically switch it on under imaginary bathroom
spotlights, before returning to the darkness where Marlon often hid; some nights from
anywhere near the Hollywood sign, you could literally hear the actor reaching back when
vintagely mumbled: "I did the best I could kid."
almost supernatural
by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda
The way Brando could
read a smile or the language
of her body. He could tell
by the way you sat on
the chair. Upright, cross
legged, slouching, end
barely on the seat. Once
at an Upper West Side
party he guessed
a woman's age by her
glaring at her teeth.
Nicotine stained,
as she dangled her
cigarette filter from
her thin red lips like
an aging 1920's starlet.
After the third exhale,
he guessed right,
she puffed away with
fury. Marlon couldn't
keep friends, he could
always read when his
pals were bluffing at
poker. Brando always
cleaned up. He lived
for conversing with
the broken ones
the diner Joes with
cracked skin that
reeked sadness under
their late shift eyes,
the way they sat sipping
coffee told more stories
than any movie ending-
there's no disguising
pain. He loved to sit in
with singers, jazz players
waiting for the trumpeter
to show his life story
within the last refrain.
Even the way the pianist
touched his keys, told
more of how he liked
his woman or if he
drank champagne.
He loathed sitting in
the Actors Studio
commissary and
hearing those thespians
complain. Wearing
soles on their faces,
like a boxer Marlon
loved going rounds
loving to reveal
their inadequacies
upstaged with upper
cut precision; almost
supernatural the way
he left their body
language feeling
bloodied, silent and
disrobed- filled
with imaginary scars.
Brando's sense of smiles
exposes why he was
always sparing shiner
grins with his hesitant
co-stars.
From
Brando's Smile: His Life, Thought, and Work
by Susan L. Mizruchi
. . . easily, and I didn't
(From a letter Kim Hunter wrote to James Grissom NYC, 1989)
by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda
How could I get over someone
like Marlon. He spoiled me -
whispering lines like an Adonis,
with a voice that mumbled proudly.
You have to understand, we consummated
that marriage every night on the stage
for many months, the way we stared, glaring
at each other like husband and wife, we wanted
to tear each other's clothes off, and then again
on the film set that tension, never mention,
some nights I can taste him, that desire still
dripping on my softest of lips. I still smell him -
clean and sweet, dirty foul mouthed muscular baby -
and I can feel that back, the way he stood against
that wall daring me to take him, showing so much
skin and his mouth pouting with such furious candor.
So many nights I wanted to bite him, I could feel him
teasing, coyly toying with me with his menacing
silence. What no one could hear was the way Brando
would poetically murmur, softly enunciating as he
flexed his tongue muscles muttering filthy pet names,
for me, as Stanley would, in my ear. I could go on,
and I wake up drenched in that fire, wanting to take him
backstage with my husband sitting over there but I carry
his sensual smells, Brando always lotioned his body up,
I inhaled his sweetest sensations, seducing me his Stella, slow
like a streetcar. I imagine him crawling from the wood
on our stage, I hear him breathing, so wildly naked
with rage like a beast wanting to get inside me
and some nights, I didn't fight him. Would you?
Some days I wish I did let him scar me with his
beautiful scent that way I could revisit his wicked
touch. I never had him and yet, I would never beg
anyone's pardon. We stood this close as bride
and groom; easily and I didn't -
I never got over his Stanley.
OPEN
by Michael McNamara
The man upstairs
dreams on purple cushions.
Cloud shaped, perfumed and soft.
I am a good listener
but he says nothing.
He has a sign up on his door. It reads:
IT IS NOT LEARNED BUT LOANED.
The restaurant below is always full.
I pass it every day and through the window
see people eating, talking, drinking
and laughing.
There's a sign up on the door
It says:
OPEN
THREE TIMES NOW
by Michael McNamara
In Blind Mary's Lane,
beneath a sill was written,
'Let us grow old and remain silent,
the night is soon upon us.'
In this tub of endorphins,
this barrel of laughs,
young guys on the low wall
outside the post office,
drinking Fanta and scratching lottery cards.
In Hamelin The Street Without Drums remains silent.
Far off a voice crying in the endlessness.
SOME NIGHTS
by Michael McNamara
Forget the beatific birth,
the hand stitched throw,
soft feather mattress,
some nights, I'd give up this earth
for an all time no
and two strips of tablets.
I SWIM IN THE LIGHT
by LQ McDonald III
i swim in the light
(of the moon
of your skin).
my body-surface
broken
(against waves
and waves of you).
i breathe.
one
breath
two
breaths
(no air is left).
but deeper I dive.
long submerged
before a trembling hand
(straining for shore)
touches your sand.
the every fine grain
of what has become of
your torn earth.
and all of that
beach shimmers
in the light
(of the moon
of your skin).
YOU WERE THE SUN
by LQ McDonald III
and also, you
were my rain.
i can still feel
your fingers
falling on me.
how cool
and lean
and baptismal.
CERULEAN
by Jackie Chou
My mother clad me in pink,
and later in my teens, lavender.
But the blue was always there,
underneath the pastel colors.
It was in my genes,
blue with its melancholia
and myriad synonyms,
azure and cerulean.
My mood is a spectrum
of different shades of blue,
including royal and navy.
The sky and the sea are blue,
with every variation in between,
turquoise and indigo.
Blue is behind my strawberry colored smile.
FEATURED POET: NEIL YOUNG
POCAHONTAS
by
Neil Young
Aurora borealis
The icy sky at night
Paddles cut the water
In a long and hurried flight
From the white man
to the fields of green
And the homeland
we've never seen.
They killed us in our teepee
And they cut our women down
They might have left some babies
Cryin' on the ground
But the firesticks
and the wagons come
And the night falls
on the setting sun.
They massacred the buffalo
Kitty corner from the bank
The taxis run across my feet
And my eyes have turned to blanks
In my little box
at the top of the stairs
With my Indian rug
and a pipe to share.
I wish a was a trapper
I would give thousand pelts
To sleep with Pocahantas
And find out how she felt
In the mornin'
on the fields of green
In the homeland
we've never seen.
And maybe Marlon Brando
Will be there by the fire
We'll sit and talk of Hollywood
And the good things there for hire
And the Astrodome
and the first teepee
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me
Pocahontas.
MISSED CONNECTIONS
Copenhagen Craigslist - Missed Connections - April 23rd, 2019 - Anonymous
Stranger things have happened (down by the sea)
Since I spent some time deluding myself in these hollow walls I thought I'd write where you would not be looking (unless you actually
felt some sort of bizarre connection still which at this point I believe was a lovely figment to my rich imagination). Mostly I needed
to vent after a strange day of minor magic and purge my mind of my memories endlessly spinning in their gelatinous centrifuge.
I felt fairly insane for a bit thinking of you and even recently when I saw your doppelganger driving round my village so I thought
I'd better vent here and restore some semblance of sanity. No idea why I still want a friendship with a watery ghost since I can
usually let go of things and people who don't see me as necessary but damn, it would be nice to hear your tales of land and sea.
The coin toss tales would be fascinating but tougher on my slightly numerically lazy brain.
I have to admit the disconnects were confusing for me because I'm pretty easy to explain anything to and I had zero expectations
especially after the first time you left quietly into that great night so still unsure why that had to be so. But anyway, I think
you're probably out there having a wonderful Easter weekend with someone lovely and I do wish you the best. I just miss that connection
that seemed to cross space and time at least in my world. Your world is more practical and grounded -- at least in between your ocean
dives and shadowed waves.
After the coast I'll be in my father's old stomping grounds again for a while so if the gods intervene or really you wake up thinking
'well that was unnecessary. I miss my friend. Maybe I'll just pick up this cellular device ...' Now that's a viable option, sir.
Simple, uncomplicated, and reasonable and yet still nice. I like nice. So underrated. w for m requesting assistance from the
Viking gods
(N.B.: "we are the Viking gods . . ." - a note from the editor
"speak, speak into the conch shell . . ." - a note from the other editor
"noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo" - says Machiavelli
"yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss" - says the cat
"getting to know you, getting to know you like me . . ." - says Mrs. Machiavelli
"peanut brittle" - says the other cat
"and ice cream" - says the cat)
BOOK REVIEWS
REGRET OR SOMETHING MORE ANIMAL:
POETRY FOR THE APOCALYPSE
Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry
Title of Book: Regret or Something More Animal
Author: Heather Bell
Publisher: CLASH Books
Date of Publication: 2020
Pages: 59
"A hot summer night, fell like a net
I've gotta find my baby yet . . ."
- from Bad Case of Loving You by Robert Palmer
A brilliant Generation "Y" Beat Poetry sound garden, tells the story of a broken marriage mended by a new love, a dance of sorrow and
resurrection, Regret or Something More Animal by Heather Bell and CLASH Books. Bell (Poet, teacher) lives in New York with
grizzly bear Dan, 4 children, and a prairie dog. She is published in magazines and journals and won the Rattle Chapbook Prize (2016)
for "Kill the Dogs".
A truthtelling, honest in the light of the sky, this Confessional/Imagist genre mix in Beat delivery is a profound take on broken.
Telling the painful story of love lost, new love found in an eloquent and profound write with a fantastical series of animal, body
and nature images.
From "I Do Not Like Winter":
"I do not like winter because
Of its small bones. Like a rat, dormouse,
Chinchilla . . . "
From "Hotel":
""I was married for nine years, and I failed
at all nine," I say. I ask you to sleep next
to me in a hotel because the flowering
dogwood of your hair. The marrow
at your neck, the scent of mountain lion,
crushed flowers, sadness."
There are 3 poems, that appear to be interrogative, a dialogue with a woman, it is as if she is outside herself and in self-dialogue,
an interesting psychological study, placing her fingers over a cut weeping vein to stop the bleeding. Bell also writes about her
grandmother, her children in passing.
A very close and personal window into the suffering of broken love affair and the cold and warm of a new love love song. A fantastical
post-New Age poetry write, Regret or Something More Animal by Heather Bell.
Available @ CLASH Books
and Amazon.com.
OF POETIC INTEREST . . .
THE BEEKEEPER'S DAUGHTERS
by
Rebecca Anne Banks
(A serialized long poem in cycles)
deep in Summer heat the warm scent of the pennyroyal the wintergreen in the heat rolls down in the sunlight off the mountain the fields
of gin flowers blueberries the red boxberries sweet for tea after the forest dark after the dark whispers of the Ocean Spirits of the
disappeared the fire that burned the trees . . . one day on that day the herald rang with news "there are ships in the harbour" she
screams silently "No" and without a sound the fears of the night roll in "In silent tears I drown" . . .
Paris rises at dawn it is the first longest day fraught with worry she vows to sleep late late into the afternoon . . .
finally he enters the courtyard . . . she screams his armour is covered in blood he goes back to the well the armour is cleaned . . .
in the silence they pick at their food play a board game she prays to the goddess Aphrodite for peace so does Paris as well as the
god Apollo for success in battle, most of the soldiers just pray to the Gods of war . . . blow out the candle he relights the candle
asks to keep the light on she becomes embarrassed he blows out the candle on the stone palette on the animal skins they make love
this night a tithe because of the war all nights sing . . .
Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She has been writing and producing artistic content
for 38 years and is the author of over 30 books of poetry, guides to the Holy Spirit, a primer on marriage discernment, a family
cookbook, a book of children's stories, a book of World Peace Newsletters, all available at Amazon Stations. She has produced 3
CD's of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CD's of music awaiting production. She won an IARA Award for Top 55 Internet Airplays for Angel
Song (2010). She is an Associate Member of the League of Canadian Poets. She is also the Poetry Editor at Subterranean Blue Poetry
(
www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com), CEO/Artist at Tea at Tympani
Lane Records (
www.tympanilanerecords.com), the Book Reviewer at
The Book Reviewer (
www.thebookreviewer.ca)and the Quilt Artist at
Kintsugi Art Quilts (
www.kintsugiartquilts.com.
Heather Bell (Poet, teacher) is widely published and lives in New York. She won the New Letters Prize (2009) and the
Rattle Chapbook Prize (2016). "She is an assistant teacher in a Montessori school and loves eating rye bread." from
Regret or Something More Animal.
Marlon Brando (Actor, Film Director, Activist) born in Nebraska. He won the Oscar for Best Actor in 1954 for his role in
On the Waterfront and 1972 for his role in
The Godfather. He refused the second Oscar as a protest for American Indian
rights. He has 3 wives and 11 children and is a renowned Hollywood icon. Los Angeles magazine, "Brando was rock and roll before
anybody knew what rock and roll was." He is best remembered for his activism and roles in
A Streetcar Named Desire,
The Wild One,
On the Waterfront,
Guys and Dolls,
The Godfather,
Last Tango in Paris,
Apocalypse Now amongst others.
Adrian Ernesto Cepeda is an L.A. Poet who has a B.A. from the University of Texas at San Antonio and he is also a graduate of the
M.F.A. program at Antioch University in Los Angeles where he lives with his wife and their cat Woody Gold. He is widely published in
journals, including, Subterranean Blue Poetry, Glass Poetry, Poets: Resist, Cultural Weekly, Frontier Poetry, 24HR Neon Magazine,
Tin Lunchbox Review, Neon Mariposa Magazine, The Yellow Chair Review, amongst others. He has written books of poetry including:
Flashes & Verses . . . Becoming Attractions (Unsolicited Press),
So Many Flowers, So Little Time (Red Mare Press),
Between the Spine (Picture Show Press),
La Belle Ajar (CLASH Books).
Jackie Chou writes free verses, rhyming poems, and Japanese short form poetry. Her work has been published in JOMP 21 Dear Mr.
President Anthology, Creative Talents Unleashed Anthologies, LUMMOX, and others. She was nominated for a Best of the Net in 2017
by Hidden Constellation.
LQ McDonald III. LQ reads everything he can get his hands on and writes everything he can wrap his heart around, chasing the
Muse wherever she leads. When he is not writing, he is running the wilds of Whitewater, Wisconsin. He has been published in Wisconsin's
Best Emerging Poets: An Anthology, Rattle Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, Common Ground Review, Tiny Seed Literary Journal and Poetry
Leaves Anthology. His writings can also be found @ modern-mojo.com.
Mike McNamara (B.A. Hons.) Humanities was born in Ireland but lives in South Wales, UK. He had his Selected Poems
Overhearing
The Incoherent published by Grevatt and Grevatt in 1997. Mike is a published songwriter. His poetry has been published in Acumen,
Aji, Dream Catcher, Envoi, Eunoia Review, InternationalTimes, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Lyric, New Welsh Review, Orbis, Reach,
Subterranean Blue Poetry, Tears in the Fence, etc. Mike also had a selection of poems published in The Pterodactyl's Wing (Parthian, 2003).
His ebook
This Transmission is published in Sept. 2019 from The Argotist Online and he has just published
Loose Canon
a Subterranean Blue Poetry Imprint (2020).
Pat Tompkins is an editor. Her photos have appeared in New Southern Fugitives, the Tishman Review, Existere, and other
publications.
Neil Young (Singer, Songwriter, Musician, Film Director, Prophet, Activist) Canadian-American born in Toronto and growing up
in Winnipeg. He is a folk rock music hero who has a history of being in popular bands, including Buffalo Springfield, Crosby, Steels,
Nash and Young, and going solo with his back up band Crazy Horse amongst others. He has received many Grammy and Juno Awards and
was made a member of The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He is best known for the albums
After the Gold Rush,
Harvest,
Long May You Run,
Comes a Time,
Hawks and Doves,
Harvest Moon,
Broken Arrow,
Homegrown
amongst others.
ubterranean Blue Poetry
