The OrphanAGE, Vol. 1.07

First Lines

Muchos años después, frente al pelotón de fusilamiento, el coronel Aureliano Buendía había de recordar aquella tarde remota en que su padre lo llevó a conocer el hielo [Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice].
~ Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

In This Issue

• Paintings by Anastacia Drake
• A new single (and a note) from Ernest James Zydeco
• 3 Poems from the "Fried Chicken Machine" himself, John Dorsey

…each issue just seems to get better and better! And yes, I intend on bragging and name-dropping:

I recall walking into a room, a dingy garage-cum-bed-sit somewhere in the far-flung hollers of the Mark Twain Forest, to find John Dorsey sitting on a cockeyed, threadbare sofa talking on a phone, to be greeted by a hang-on-just-a-minute finger. I did just that: hung on. Even though we were scheduled for a pressing fried chicken run, one does not simply interrupt a call with Viggo Mortensen. From there to legendary evenings in company of the likes of Henry Rollins, wherever one goes in the poetry world, one seems to come across John Dorsey. Poet. Playwright. Screenwriter. Dorsey has appeared in over 2,000 anthologies and authored over a hundred books of verse. We've cornered 3 new ones hot off the presses.

Joining him in this issue is Anastacia Drake. Her work (beside hanging above my kitchen table) is tactile and erupting with color — the perfect balm to ease us over the precipice toward spring. Perhaps she picked up a little inspiration from all her globe-trotting, but don’t you think there’s something about these that seems to evoke Frida?

Finally, Ernest James and his Zydeco cohorts have a new single, and The OrphanAGE has it! From the soon to be released 5th album.

Peace,
Dante

Anastacia Drake

You can find more of Anastasia's work at her website.

Ernest James

Imagine a room like a grammar school auditorium, but with a lofty ceiling and the name of the town blazoned on the wall. I’m in the community hall of a small town of 3000 people. There are six rows of folding chairs filled with an audience patiently waiting.

I’m trying to figure out how to plug in my accordion with a bearded guy named Dylan. He’s just lead a rock band of teenagers through a Radiohead song, and the room was impressed. As was I. But now I’m standing in front of my new community, many of whom I’ve yet to meet, preparing to play for them, hoping to be appreciated. The flip side is that they may not like my music. Which should be no big deal, but right here, in front of my new community, it could feel like a rejection of who I am.

So many of us who climb on stage to tell stories do so because we had difficult childhoods. And telling these stories, we’re hoping for acceptance, hoping for love. We attach ourselves to these moments, to our work. A rejection of the work can feel like a rejection of who we are.

So, here I stand in front of 75 people who’ve been watching kids and teenagers perform, politely clapping after each. Now it’s my turn, a 53 year-old man with his accordion. I’ll be followed by some 14 year-old teenage girls singing a Taylor Swift song . The audience is waiting. Dylan is asking me where to plug in the cord. In the back of the PA speaker? In the back of the bass amplifier? We settle on the bass amplifier.

I know that these thoughts about acceptance, appreciation, love, and my stories are an illusion. Deep down I know that I accept myself.

We are all working through our own issues of love and acceptance. If somebody doesn’t like my stories, or doesn’t like me, I am still fundamentally me and no big deal. But I have my moments. Sometimes my neediness gets the better of me. Right now, the moment is on the stage of this beautiful old community building called Holly Hall, with a gaggle of neighbors watching as I take a breath, flash a smile, and walk up to the microphone.

I have to do this you see. I don’t live a life where I don’t tell these stories. They course through me and I have to put them out into the world. I’m fine if you like it or if you don’t. But I have to put them out there.

I place my right hand on the E flat octave and I let my fingers ripple in a wash of reedy notes. I let it swell louder and I burst out “it’s time to wake up!” I see their attentive eyes and I’m at peace. There is nothing anymore but this moment.

~E. James

Note: Ernest James will return to KC for one night only at
The Ship
Thursday Feb 26 at 6pm
Tickets will go quickly!

John Dorsey

Cold as ICE

for renee good

those words
used to remind me
of a song
they played too much
on the radio
but now foreigner
has a whole different meaning
you can’t fit a heart
into a cage
built to house
a river
or keep blood
from flowing into the streets
staining the snow
tomorrow they will just wash it away
with hoses
that will quickly
become a part of history
minnesota is singing
the delta blues tonight
from far away
you can hear
the children hum
as you bleed for them.

The Young Girl at the Register

gives me a strange look
behind dead eyes
as if i just came
from a rager
on jeffrey epstein’s island
while ringing up
my plain greek yogurt
from the discount bin
priced for quick sale
before looking away
to check her phone
for messages
from a better life.

Ramen & Canned Corn

for debbie

we made it all that winter
on ramen with canned corn
thrown in for actual protein
& fought & made love
at the top of our lungs
& fantasized about leaving toledo
for some tropical island
but you’re gone now
& i just about made it
to the other side myself
& now all i think about
is going back there
young & healthy
drunk on joy
with so much time
on our hands
with so much
leftover life to kill.

The Big Quiz

1. Who is evoked by Anastacia's paintings?
2. What instrument does Ernest James play?
3. Name a major headline that gets a nod in Dorsey's poems?

Send us your quiz answers!