Family Tree

This time of year I envy the treeless families

Their empty yards, dying and dead grass

Waiting for the winter coming on and

Spring not far behind

But us tree families spend our time trying

To clean up after our family tree

Our ancestry, its ancestry on display

So there we are, rake in hand

Piling up the debris left behind by just being

Being there

My family tree with its high branches

We like to look up to, and

Some low branches, so low I need to

Bend almost in half to get by

And then there’s that part we’ve cut away

Over the years, a regular bald spot looming

Larger and larger

Something I’ve inherited, like trembling hands

And these malformed feet

This time of year, walking backward raking up

Conjuring up connections to this

Mysterious ancestry, piles of leaves

So much to clean up

That

I envy treeless families.




                        Leafmeal Lie


At 10:06 this morning a leaf fell from the maple

Out front. Saw it from the couch, looking out

The storm door. It fell, it floated down ending

Its season, its cycle on the ground under its tree.

It must have started like the others, a bud-like

Growth, the kind squirrels will eat in the Spring,

But it survived, grew, felt all the Summer heat

And the drought, the wind, the heavy downpours

And then this Fall weather, the chill, the falling

Away of its many companions. Then at 10:06

This morning it ended its cycle, its seasons, it fell

Floated to the ground to await its fate. Perhaps

It will be the mower turning it to mulch with

The rest, or maybe it will blow up the street, mix

With other leaves, get raked, get bagged, get

Carried off and composted miles from here, miles

Away from its tree. Or it could just blend in, lie

Flat, avoid all of my attempts to get rid of it, and

Then lie flat as it gets colder, begins to snow, and

Spends the Winter wet, frozen under the snow

Till Spring returns – and I’ll be sitting here on this

Couch looking out the screen door, waiting for

Something else as momentous to happen.


                   Cramped

No need for an alarm anymore

Or any of the other sounds that

Used to wake me: the sound of

My sons getting ready for school

Or my wife crashing away, trying

To fix our world before heading

Off to fix the world of her work.

No I don’t need any of those any-

More, this morning I woke up to

Leg cramps. My left shin, or was

It my right cramped into a pain

Strong enough to wake me, get

Me up hobbling around the room

Hoping to end it, to satisfy what-

Ever imbalance that set it off. It

Worked, I was up and the cramp

Toned down enough to walk on.

It was morning and I was up for

The day, without an alarm or any

Of the other distractions that played

That role. Online they say that my

Cramps are common for aging adults

And athletes. Never was an athlete

So I fall into that fifty percent of sixty

Plus year-olds who suffer these cramps.

It’s good to know I fit into the statistics

With about half of my group. I’d like to

Picture a chart somewhere, some med

School showing the percent and perhaps

A diagram of an aging cramped shin

Waking an aging adult instead of his clock.

Hotel Eternity

TO EXIST BETWEEN ETERNITIES WILD 
NOTHING LIKE THE EYES OF THE SKY 
AXIS INFINITY DICTIONARY OF OBSCURE BLISS 
COME FORWARD WITH YOUR VISCERA AND VIOLENCE AND SHARE MY WINGS
UNLEASH YOUR SPIRIT BENEATH THE RAMJET 
ALLEGRO TEMPLE OF THE NIGHT SKY 

A NEED FOR MIRRORS AND COUNTLESS SKIES 
SHAKE YOUR INFINESSENCE SLOT CANYON 
HIGHBREATH NARCOTIC ERUPTIONS CLOUD NOTHINGS 
EXOTIC PULSE A NAME BEYOND DESIRE SEMAPHORE SIN 
PLAY AT YOUR OWN RISK TALKING TWILIGHT 
INTO A SPHERE OF YOUTHFUL SYMPATHY RIDES THE THIEF OF YOUTH 
THIN AIR ADDICTIONS MELANCHOLY BODY SACRILEGE TATTOO HIGHWAY INSOMNIA PUNK

TEENAGE BLOOD REPETITION OF A THOUSAND HUNGRY EYES
SOMETIMES WE ARE ALL ETERNAL IN THE CONSTELLATION OF MIDNIGHT MOSAIC FACTION

MY GREEN UNQUEEN GALLERY CRUSH HYPERRITUAL AUTUMN CRY 
OPULENCE LIKE A TRIANGLE AND A DUEL
SOME TALK TO MEN WHILE OTHERS TALK TO GODS
DANCE IT VISCIOUS RIDDLE OF THE SANDS CHAMELEON CHARADE 
STAR CODE CHALICE
ASK THE DESERT ORACLE THESE POISON DECLARATIONS THE REAL UNREAL CONVERSATIONS WITH A NEW REALITY
NATURE’S SYMPHONY DRAFT INTOXICATION

spinach lego

the sheep rock was a milo
the salt of the feather

that dart is a broth of the coin
the true eye of the ironing head

the shamrock shoe monster
the walter koenig of the island

the wheel of the montgomery is the clue
the rainbow of the motel meal

the wolf warns us of the war
a nike of the world is the camel of the brain
 
if this is the green rope

in the dollar book of the charmed breakfast
the healing episode of the martian letters

the corner of saturn’s face
the nine of the winter

the sun tree of a while ago
the clean motel of the raisins

the apple of the white squall
I’m gargling with pennies
 
cape sanka (the tattle is the bough)

in the moon morning
thru the window, parmesan

a real rain garden is the color of the music
I wiggle my toes in the magic sauce

when I do nothing to stop that apple of the iron
a toad is the now

the ankh of the heart of the salmon
that hum is the name of the grumble
 
scopey toe, a rowe

a glimpse of the sugar bowl
the pollen of peculiar pointing
this is the shield of the shamrock

ceres is my name
I plug the draft of the wig
I eat the honey of dawn

I was standing, understanding
that planet is the pear of the game
the known world is the suffering noun

to learn of the nothing
the science is the nearness
google a number
 
bio/graf

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poetry has appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). His poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net in 2021. Visit http://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado.

The Water Tower Trilogy

 

 Nightfall

 

Outside of town perched on a hill

Past the reach of the highway

And the sounds of the neighborhood

 

Sliver of moon not enough for light

Strange the fence surrounding the water tower

Gate left unlocked by the watchman

 

You were no longer shy that summer

Since you had met that guy from LA

He was just passing through our little town

 

The steel ladder had chips of paint hanging loose

A high and narrow climb

You leading the way like you had been up there before

 

You had promised me another sexual adventure

You were becoming more and more of an exhibitionist

Surprising me as to how far you would go

 

You had changed me from a boy into a nomad

Those nights we snuck out from our parents

 

Somehow I knew this would be the climax

The last night before you would leave

 

You stood on top of the water tower roof

A slight rise to its metal dome

I crawled up to you and marveled at your daring

 

You slowly stripped gazing down at the town lights

And me on my knees.

 

 

 

Dust Town

 

I’m still here

All my friends gone

 

Faraway cities consumed them

None ever coming back

 

Not a letter or phone call

Those foreign cemeteries full

 

The night always calling me out

Long treks into the desert

 

Whispering wind uplifting

Over a town with a population of zero.

 

 

 

Dream Fulfilling

 

No solitude in Heaven

All forgiven

 

Millions of souls

Freedom of flight

 

Finally awakening

On top of the water tower’s call

The height a mere step off.

 

 

 


Teaser

 

She’s a quiet teaser

Addicted to her cause and effect

 

In control of every move

Long lost in epic delusions

 

Practiced sashays and stance

Picture-framed

 

Body brazen

Captivating nude

 

Collecting shadows

For self obliteration

 

Scream sigh

Cry spit

 

Strip cover

Smile wink

 

Unbound energy

Surrender fake

 

I find myself loving her

With all that she is

 

A madness to squeeze her

Into the She Beast she craves to be

 

And maybe then

She’ll be free.

 

 


Guitar Man

 

Guitar man strumming the strings

On his corner sidewalk

 

Cars passing with cheering honks

Everyone bobbing in their spots

 

A few dollars given

Into his open guitar case

 

His notes still dancing in his head

In the middle of the night

 

Beneath a scan of stars

His bed cradled nightly

In a trash dumpster.

 

 

381-

		More than 100 people queue at a 
gas station for a chance to see,
sniff, a blooming corpse flower.
So says Harper’s Weekly News 
roundup. Literally smells like death. 
A San Francisco treat. Following
The corpse on social media. Over 
1,200 scenters in all. Not a scene
From a David Lynch movie. A Field
of Dreams. Cultivate it and they will 
come.



		382-

The tyranny of the corpse. George
Romero or Claire Thomas. The corpse
as content. As a consumer product.
The consuming corpse. All consuming
corpse. The Exquisite Corpse. The Peace
Corpse. Dead Kennedys.


		383-

“Who was shot, who was imprisoned, 
who escaped” Colm Toibin said. Now
introducing Natalie Ginzburg. Yesterday,
Today, and Tomorrow. Sophia Loren movie
or current events. Book. Fascists in Italy.
Germany. Here a fascist, there a fascist,
everywhere a fascist. Ezra Pound on
the radio or in St. Elizabeth’s. Voices in
the Wilderness or Voices in the Evening.



		387-

Hunker down for medium night.
The message is still the. Massage.
Psychic readings 50 bucks. A session.
Rise the Dark or Never Far Away.
20 dollars. 20 minutes of healing
Crystals. For all Those Who Wish
Me Dead. On Mediumship Way and
Spiritualist Street. Not at Terror Street
And Agony Way. Nearby. Ask for Raven
Star. Mystic Witch. Not in Connecticut.
Florida. Naturally.


		388-

Paying last respects. For the deceased.
During pandemic. Death Zoom casts.
Supply your own sound track.
Patsy Cline. “Sweet Dreams.” “Leavin’
On Your Mind.” “Back in Baby’s Arms.”
“Don’t tell anyone, because if we tell
People, then it will become true.”
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Notes on
Grief. Patsy Cline. “I Fall to Pieces.”

derailed

she was at a train station
with no direction in mind.
the world spun on
behind her,
people talking on business calls,
yelling at kids to “keep up!”

it was his fault she was here,
adrift in a world
where being tethered
to inanimate objects
was key.

she wondered how hard it would be
to dash across the train tracks
and avoid being caught.
it was the type of thought
he would have.

he had been damaged
for a long time.

his childish snowflake edges
now sharpened into knives,
unwittingly ready to cut
anyone who came near.
his flowered heart
once blooming and joyful,
now a ninja star,
incapable of being cradled
by smooth hands.

he had spent many hours
looking at the moon.
or glaring at it.
she didn’t know.

but his silhouette
hunched on the deck
and bathed in white light
was a secret
for only her.

his fingers were always calloused now,
ridges from guitar strings
pressed into them.
permanently.

she secretly hoped
she could hear him in the night.
sorrowful tunes
made by someone who knew
what he was doing
even if he never showed it.

the wrinkles behind his eyes
faded long before she realized
he never smiled anymore.

they were on separate trains
heading in opposite directions
and the most she could do
was press up against the window
and love him
while it lasted.

Nashville Shakespeare

From his tongue he spoke like Waylon
The bard of the Cumberland River
His journey from Macbeth to the Grand Ole Opry
In the Ryman he battered us with sonnets. A long dream.

In the dead of night 
He wore the cloak of tragedy
While the Honky Tonk boys erupted in laughter
As he tripped over the cowboy boots scooting on the dancefloor.

Then all the romances in the world,
Within every glittering star in the sky
Violated the Romeo and Juliet pact.
And watched him cough through his fumes of sighs.

All the women he used to fancy
Are chasing the broncos at the rodeo.
Everyone is drunk on whiskey and moonshine
Less on wine and Absinthe with wormwood.

In the mirrors he believed to see the future.
With a skull in his hand feeling axiomatic
An original intellectual filled up with the Viper’s spit.
Surrounded by tornados and outlaws in a sun wrought sky.

There is a banging, clash against the church glass windows
The art painted by the halos of exotic angels
The cholera will hit the streets and the cowardly all say goodnight.
In the buzzing city, the homeless and the golden dances become one.

The light returns in a gleam as the alert hits Broadway
The pounding of hail and glass molding hits like hammers
Playwrights always preferred a bubonic ending.
The Kings were noble and didn’t know the calls to country animals.

Bio: David L O’Nan (he/him) is the founder of Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art, A writer, editor for nearly 20 years.  He has pieces found in Icefloe Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, Ghost City Review, Royal Rose Magazine, Rhythm & Bones Press Lit, Cajun Mutt Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Nymphs Publishing, Spillwords among others.  His website for publishing older work & others work is found at www.feversofthemind.com   He is from the Midwest . Kentucky/Indiana area.