ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VIII Issue XII

The Masthead:

"Tide Pool: On the Waterfront: Marlon Brando for Christmas"

Art/Photo by Pat Tompkins

"Tide pool, sea balm, blue seashells in rain,
watch the ocean, watch the rain, "everyone
answers to someone, answers to the rain" . . .

"bird fly

past winter tree

sunlight . . .

bird fly"

"lady teardrop

heaven for small miracles


Sid Simeon

magic like that

flower vellum

stereo eyes

jewelry shang bit

the life cycle of diamonds

and something in girl song




and gin coloured robots

street back

fire signs

and southwest Anaheim

June bear

jus and candy rain . . .

of lightspur

they crowned

their own euphoria

the tragedy

and we wear

the dresses of the damned

dance in the silences of winter

remembering the moon

and the silence rains down

like music





the night travels


the moon

some blue night

i follow

blue dragons

in the night

I watch the rain

I watch the sea



awake the dragon

stirs the blue

the flower

that opens

that closes

the next thought

in the woods

calls down the moon

claims the moonlight

cross warrants

crowd funding

a pearl earring

from his wife's treasure box

something you get used to


about attachments

it is February

into kind . . .

the glass cloche

forces the flower

into bloom

the glass sweats

in the sunlight

in the winter days

of sunlight

the glass bell jar

someone in

innocent arrears

the inside of the road

the whole earth, blue

and the island caves

carved by the

beating sunlight

the ocean

bone rooms

with no ceilings

and the rain

soaks our skin

as we lay



the sky


the sun

cosmic happenstance





answers to the rain

the last imprints

(rain on bare skin)


bang warrants

in history

desire is a hard beg

to say no

the geography of no

to have your dress removed

the white veil


from your eyes


it is hard

to stay alive

drugs and Christmas presents

in the underground tunnels

of Alcatraz

i lay down

hope for sleep

heat and light sparks

across her throat

the night

is quiet

i drift


down . . .

strawberries and honey


across the moon

the Market

in the morning"

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VIII Issue XII
(Christmas 2020)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2020

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

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.


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:

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:


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.


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.


by LQ McDonald III

i swim in the light
(of the moon
of your skin).
my body-surface
(against waves
and waves of you).
i breathe.
(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).


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.


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.




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


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)



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.




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" . . .

the battlefield by the ocean                       Troy readies for war
                                  spins spins spins                          her cousin, she sits and spins the thread

a Trojan girl bathes in the ocean                          the Greek soldiers                                 overpower the girl
                                       there is an intruder                          the bees gather in the hive

                                    take her to the headman                            she is meat jewelry
the drones masticate the combs                             the drones come and go                        from flower to flower

one caught with strangers                  caught in hell                                    the dark stars
                               as they rub,                    rub the pollen on their bodies                    the drones come and go

she dreams of escape                                    Agamemnon sees her                                takes her as his concubine
                          the drones masticate the honey                        the bees masticate the wax

                             she cries               the storm gathers                       the women of Troy no longer bathe in the ocean the bees seal the combs               the storm                       spins spins spins

                                     the woman of the court of Summerkand                                 "you are so beautiful"
her cousin she weaves the cloth                                          vagrants arrive the suitors

                            "you could have any man here"                          Hélène blanched
they drink of her wine                                   they eat of her food                     her cousin she sits and weaves at her loom

"I would never leave my husband's bed"                   Paris trusts her                             "she's so good"
                                            days and days                       the vagrants pester her

                                      she sits on the dais                                    the serving girl, the only Trojan person
"when will you marry one of us?"                          "your husband is not at home"

                without her Starcrossed one                             the storm haint, serves her cup                  as she goes to drink
"longtime"                                 "and is probably dead"                                     "in the war"

                          it is poison                       she appoints her good maid                               to her cup and plate
the suitor threatens                  she stops weaving                                and looks directly at him

                                                walking back to her apartment                               the father of Paris accosts her
"when I have finished weaving the cloth"                                   "I will marry one of you"

                                   "you are more beautiful than my wife"                       silence                  she is chagrined and hurries on
she turns back to her weaving                                     spins spins spins             in the night

                     she sits for the serving girl to dress her long fair hair
when all asleep                                                               she secrets in and tears back the cloth

at court, cruelly they laugh                                  she cries              runs back to the apartments she shares with Paris
                                  weaving and weaving each day               dreaming

                     to the court of Summerkand                              Hélène never returns . . .
ever-dreaming                               of the return of Ulysses

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 . . .

"blue and blue
a winter day
awaiting storm . . ."



Rebecca Anne Banks

and beautiful McRobbins
phantom of deutronic
out on Wichita Canyon
by the side of the road

enter the dragon
waking the dragon

impossible places
and shine
friends and misdemeanors
the right side of coin
and living just
for the cat
sweet luminescent
dreams she,
criminal candy
the bird in a cage naked, the dance
the dance
he watches . . .
mandatory in predatory games
2 hearts
angel grace
know better blues
o' mon dean

the giant clock unwinds . . .

and time
the burning, the burning
"he pluck'est me out"*

is it hard to carve a speeding limo?
stray hemlock
parked in the backyard
O' Genevieve and stockings
he sits
in the corner
by the window
watching the night
moon girl

waiting, waiting
for the train . . .
the train
and all the pictures fall off the wall

the unlived lives
on rue street
highway anarchy, sleeping
children in the road
odd the silence of it
on a bad day
it's like rain
never sleep with strangers
highway tag

blues poetry blues
and a guitar

up on the roof
all the birds in the cage
high into the golden setting sun

a certain brocade
counting the stars
in their beer
fire signs
thank you Caspia

lightening in the sky
maybe we quelled the 'bye
lamp pardoe
some days you can feel the rain
under your skin

the cacophony plays around his head
how the ties that bind
have come undone, undone . . . she falls

a third of the people live alone
of sin
do not speak of sin
of war
do not speak of war
and the wire choke
the silence

the giant clock unwinds . . .

kiss and kiss
and never tell
waiting on Kingdom come.

*from The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot


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.