The OrphanAGE, Vol. 1.25

First Lines

Though he was filthy from head to toe, bloodied and his skin shredded as thoroughly as a cat’s scratching post, Omad couldn’t suppress a grin.
~Dani & Eytan Kollin, The Unincorporated Man

Pacing the deck, 3am. A storm percolates on the horizon off Lawrence-way. Even after 24 years of abstinence, there’s a lingering inclination for a cigarette. Instead, I inhale this late promise of weather. On the kitchen table, a copy of Ted Berrigan’s A Certain Slant of Sunlight sits open next to City Lights’ posthumous collection of his essays. Open on the computer, an email containing a serendipitous submission from John Dorsey that just so happens to include a nod to Berrigan. The good part of the evening spent thumbing a collection of Allan Winkler’s artwork. Many of us encounter his murals as we wander around our fair city, and one of my go-to T’s sports a wild-haired, line-art portrait of what I imagine to be the artist himself. As the wind picks up, I find a tune stuck in my head… Worried mind wearied load…find the answers somewhere in between… or so sings Tony Ladesich and his Pendergast.

Peace,
Dante

In this Issue:

• Art by Allan Winkler
• Poetry by John Dorsey
• Music by Pendergast

John Dorsey

Having Lived 5 Days Longer than Ted Berrigan

i dream of alice notley
applying sunscreen to my nose
while reading a poem
about autumn.

Sam Ryan Whispers the Song of the Dead

all through the summer of 2022
flies circled my forehead
my rotting flesh
triggering their
long dormant bloodlust
on one particularly hot
evening in pittsburgh
while hanging out
in a friend’s backyard
my left eye swollen
the night sky
washed clean
in a pool of moonlight & fear
maybe they thought
i was already dead
instead of just
wishing i was
blood running down
the side of my face
like an old irish fight song
only you could sing
passed down
from your grandmother
as you patiently waited
for us to meet again
with fried chicken
& bad jokes
flanked by all
of the tougher angels
on pine street
where you once sang
on every corner
about red haired girls
shrouded in mystery
& often too hot to touch
on those dark corners
where they’d
break your finger
or your heart
for even mentioning
the song of the dead
while praying
to a hummingbird
as if summoning
an old friend
sam i know there are almost
no words left to sing
on the streets tonight
& almost nobody left
who remembers
we were ever there
not a single soul
left
to sweep up
the bones
real or imagined
& there have to be times
when you are just too tired
from years of watching over me
like a younger brother’s ghost
especially when
there’s still
a faint pulse
beating
in
the wind.