Words
spilled
© 1.24.2021 by Mica D’Orleans
nothing is nothing i say
a wood table broken
a bottle of wine
spilled
dream no. 20210112
© 1/12/2021 by Mica D’Orleans
it is night. very dark. the lights from the football field manages a dim glow bespeckled with digital noise. the camera slowly focuses in on a grainy close-up of pence holding his forefinger and thumb so close together only a slight gap barely able to slip a quarter through is seen. as he brings his fingers to his lips you feel the anticipation. the mic picks up his breath as he inhales deeply. looking smug he smiles, extends his pinched fingers at arms length and shouts, "the stoke is lit!"
an
explosion of cheers is picked up by the mic, nearly distorting the
sound, and the camera quickly pulls back to expose a sardine packed
field with maskless patriots hooting their lungs out. a couple of close
ups sweep through the crowd, showing viking man and other red white and
blue painted faces before going black.
i wake
up and look around. it is almost 11:30 in the morning. unsure, i shake my
head, all along doubtful of my surrounding, thinking, "uh, a dream... right?"
Yaya Coming Through Ya’ll!
© 12/31/2020 by Mica D’Orleans
(*translation in brackets)
Oyeeh
OyeOye
Oyeeeh
OyeOye…
Ti gason pa fem criye (Little boy, don't make me cry)
Oyeeh
OyeOye
Oyeeeh
OyeOye
TapTap
Tambou ap bat (The drums are beating)
TapTapTapTap
Tout tombou nan kay’ap bat (All the drums in the house are beating)
Oyeeeh
OyeOye
Map mene’w kote’w’prale (I'll bring you where you're heading)
With that song in mind the barefoot heroine walked her path
The drumbeat marked her march with an ethereal song driving her forward
Yaya’s internal smile was mystical. No one doubted she was guided by a strange force. The thing was that no one could tell if it was good or evil. Still that smile dismantled all, and her journey etched deep in the ground anticipated, long and magical, tailored for her alone
“Yaya coming through.” Hips swinging from side to smile, the girl grinning from ear to ear
her gate never interrupted as she charmed those whose gaze she fell upon
“Yaya coming through y’all. Better make way for me, cause you know I can never stop.”
The islanders cheered, the swish swish swished, and the wind swept Yaya across the market grounds. Even the girls couldn’t find reason to be jealous. She was flat as a board, tall as a telephone pole, skinny as can be, but they all fell in love with that nappy haired urchin who carried the sun from the day she was born.
“Yaya coming through y’all.
Little John’s drumbeat began. Swaying to her swish. Left, right, left, right, left, right.
“Yaya’s coming through y’all,” a laughing merchant yelled to the crowd.
“Yaya’s coming through! Yaya’s coming through! Yaya’s coming though!”
Yaya turned and graced the neighborhood boys with her winning smile.
“Yaya Yaya Yayaaaa!!!” they yipped away.
The little girl who grew too big, who saved their town, who paid the price, was coming through…
“Yaya coming through y’all!” (03:42 a.m.)
(*translation in brackets)
Oyeeh
OyeOye
Oyeeeh
OyeOye…
Ti gason pa fem criye (Little boy, don't make me cry)
Oyeeh
OyeOye
Oyeeeh
OyeOye
TapTap
Tambou ap bat (The drums are beating)
TapTapTapTap
Tout tombou nan kay’ap bat (All the drums in the house are beating)
Oyeeeh
OyeOye
Map mene’w kote’w’prale (I'll bring you where you're heading)
With that song in mind the barefoot heroine walked her path
The drumbeat marked her march with an ethereal song driving her forward
Yaya’s internal smile was mystical. No one doubted she was guided by a strange force. The thing was that no one could tell if it was good or evil. Still that smile dismantled all, and her journey etched deep in the ground anticipated, long and magical, tailored for her alone
“Yaya coming through.” Hips swinging from side to smile, the girl grinning from ear to ear
her gate never interrupted as she charmed those whose gaze she fell upon
“Yaya coming through y’all. Better make way for me, cause you know I can never stop.”
The islanders cheered, the swish swish swished, and the wind swept Yaya across the market grounds. Even the girls couldn’t find reason to be jealous. She was flat as a board, tall as a telephone pole, skinny as can be, but they all fell in love with that nappy haired urchin who carried the sun from the day she was born.
“Yaya coming through y’all.
Little John’s drumbeat began. Swaying to her swish. Left, right, left, right, left, right.
“Yaya’s coming through y’all,” a laughing merchant yelled to the crowd.
“Yaya’s coming through! Yaya’s coming through! Yaya’s coming though!”
Yaya turned and graced the neighborhood boys with her winning smile.
“Yaya Yaya Yayaaaa!!!” they yipped away.
The little girl who grew too big, who saved their town, who paid the price, was coming through…
“Yaya coming through y’all!” (03:42 a.m.)
?
© 1991 and 2012 by mica d'orléans
I
You see what it was I lost my self my perspective who I was
you see because all these years of bending and adjustingyou see all these
years of bending backwards and hiding
you see in that
process I lost my self my perspective who I am
II
so yeah you think I am boring
so yeah you should read the aboveso yeah I am awkward
so yeah I fumble
with my words
II.5
so what that I itch around people
so what that I am allergic to themso what that I can’t be the one you imagined
so what I’ll be on my
way now
This is a tale of lies. The story begins with a 17-year-old-or-something pregnant young woman sleeping in a Yellow Bus bound for New York City. The young woman, whom we shall call X, draws a blank when it comes to her name. And at this point all that is known of her is that she is a sound sleeper, and one who snores louder than usual.
Inside another Yellow Bus coming from a different part of the States is another pregnant young woman who is a few years older than the first. She is also sound asleep and, apparently, does not snore. She too was on her way to New York City. This young lady we shall call Y, for she also suffers from amnesia.
It seems that X and Y were not friends, just strangers. Neither were they in deep slumber, but prey to a Ømg induced coma. Both were taken to Dtown Hospital Z, which was one block from the Yellow Bus depot. The only other difference between the two was date and time of their arrival into the city, which was 2 days and 16 hours apart; still too close to have been left unnoticed. So, as noted, given their similar situation, we admit it took far too long for I-Unit 2 to link their two cases. But, on a better note, it did not take much time for a new friendship to be...
Rain fell at its slow pace. Like everything else. Car lights. Red, neon white, yellow, green headlights zoom by. Irrelevant random noise rang like running water mixed with church bells sounding off the pope's death.
The red mark still stung. Yeah. I tried to wipe it from my neck. His invisible kiss. What can I say. Sunday nights don't always mean Monday's next. Independent contractors like me make up their own time.
The street ahead, barely visible, fog and rain, ka? Not too hard to imagine... That street... Yeah. Turn right. Into the alleyway. Past the ramen shop. Across from Ti Malis. Down the dark stairway. Makes no difference time of day. That hole's always dark. Not that it matters.
I released the latch. The cylinder was broken. I knew that. But they wouldn't.
"Ah, ha, ha, ha!"
My kicking down the door had the wrong effect. It was a set up.
That fucking jerk.
Again. I tried to erase the mark.
That Judas kiss.
Mademoiselle Where do you stand as an artist?
Interviewer (laughter) Wow!
M If you were to choose your favorite art piece, which would you choose?
I A friend of mine who can’t help himself from conceptualizing everything once worked on a project using slugs.
M Slugs!
I Yes. He went out of his element, which was New York [Manhattan], to visit his sister in Pennsylvania. Apparently, slugs are rampant there … so, he started collecting them as pets. Next thing … he had about 300 of them! He built these aquariums…
M How many?
I Three.
M Then what happened?
I I’m not sure. There were a lot of drawings (yawns), and planning…
M Sounds very intriguing… How did it turn out?
I In any case, it was the concept that became the art.
M hmmm… Well, what drives you?
(Silence)
M You know… as an artist…
I You know, that’s a hard question to answer. Dreams are good. They sometimes give you ideas… Mood swings, sleep deprivation, not having money… all these create ideas, and if you jump on it and get in a roll it can be such a high.
M Well, how about when you’re feeling good?
I That can be a dangerous state. Feeling good and having to work a regular job. Both these can put you in a state of depression that removes any motivation. I mean feeling good is good, but it keeps you away from your art, and if it lasts too long, then you become like a bread dough. That’s why all these famous artists you read about turn out boring art, or end up being a caricature of what made them famous. have you seen the newest chuck close at moma sf!
An Unfinished Tale of Lies
© 7.25.2017 by Mica D’OrléansThis is a tale of lies. The story begins with a 17-year-old-or-something pregnant young woman sleeping in a Yellow Bus bound for New York City. The young woman, whom we shall call X, draws a blank when it comes to her name. And at this point all that is known of her is that she is a sound sleeper, and one who snores louder than usual.
Inside another Yellow Bus coming from a different part of the States is another pregnant young woman who is a few years older than the first. She is also sound asleep and, apparently, does not snore. She too was on her way to New York City. This young lady we shall call Y, for she also suffers from amnesia.
It seems that X and Y were not friends, just strangers. Neither were they in deep slumber, but prey to a Ømg induced coma. Both were taken to Dtown Hospital Z, which was one block from the Yellow Bus depot. The only other difference between the two was date and time of their arrival into the city, which was 2 days and 16 hours apart; still too close to have been left unnoticed. So, as noted, given their similar situation, we admit it took far too long for I-Unit 2 to link their two cases. But, on a better note, it did not take much time for a new friendship to be...
That Judas Kiss
© 9.28.2015 by Mica D’OrléansRain fell at its slow pace. Like everything else. Car lights. Red, neon white, yellow, green headlights zoom by. Irrelevant random noise rang like running water mixed with church bells sounding off the pope's death.
The red mark still stung. Yeah. I tried to wipe it from my neck. His invisible kiss. What can I say. Sunday nights don't always mean Monday's next. Independent contractors like me make up their own time.
The street ahead, barely visible, fog and rain, ka? Not too hard to imagine... That street... Yeah. Turn right. Into the alleyway. Past the ramen shop. Across from Ti Malis. Down the dark stairway. Makes no difference time of day. That hole's always dark. Not that it matters.
I released the latch. The cylinder was broken. I knew that. But they wouldn't.
"Ah, ha, ha, ha!"
My kicking down the door had the wrong effect. It was a set up.
That fucking jerk.
Again. I tried to erase the mark.
That Judas kiss.
random thoughts
©2006 & 2012 by Mica D'OrleansMademoiselle Where do you stand as an artist?
Interviewer (laughter) Wow!
M If you were to choose your favorite art piece, which would you choose?
I A friend of mine who can’t help himself from conceptualizing everything once worked on a project using slugs.
M Slugs!
I Yes. He went out of his element, which was New York [Manhattan], to visit his sister in Pennsylvania. Apparently, slugs are rampant there … so, he started collecting them as pets. Next thing … he had about 300 of them! He built these aquariums…
M How many?
I Three.
M Then what happened?
I I’m not sure. There were a lot of drawings (yawns), and planning…
M Sounds very intriguing… How did it turn out?
I In any case, it was the concept that became the art.
M hmmm… Well, what drives you?
(Silence)
M You know… as an artist…
I You know, that’s a hard question to answer. Dreams are good. They sometimes give you ideas… Mood swings, sleep deprivation, not having money… all these create ideas, and if you jump on it and get in a roll it can be such a high.
M Well, how about when you’re feeling good?
I That can be a dangerous state. Feeling good and having to work a regular job. Both these can put you in a state of depression that removes any motivation. I mean feeling good is good, but it keeps you away from your art, and if it lasts too long, then you become like a bread dough. That’s why all these famous artists you read about turn out boring art, or end up being a caricature of what made them famous. have you seen the newest chuck close at moma sf!
an act of desperado
©1991 & 2012 by Mica D'OrleansI wanted to leave an impression so I
screamed... for no reason... save the
scream. All but one covered their
ears... I knew he was the one.
My stare was returned with nothing
but contempt... So I screamed once
again... This time for real.
Someone spun me and I continued the
spin 'til I became dizzy and fell.
No outstretched hand came my
way... allowing me the decency to
take my time... to show the hurt I
felt.
I walked through the staring
crowd... zigzagging out of their way
lest I break the straw that broke
the camel's back... past the one I
knew was the one. far from him was
my place...
This thought... at least I knew... we
both shared. (written in 10.19.91)
innocence
©2012 by Mica D'Orleans
innocence
like the mayfly
early loss
innocence
like the mayfly
early loss
lost love
©2012 by Mica D'Orleans
a falling leaf
gust of wind
lost love
a falling leaf
gust of wind
lost love
wandering mind
©2012 by Mica D'Orleans
Silhouette
Outlining my hand
Dark shadow
Against bright light
Wandering mind
Silhouette
Outlining my hand
Dark shadow
Against bright light
Wandering mind
new story intro
© 2012 by Mica D'Orléans
a blank look void of personality spoke unchained words. i walked away. there was nothing to add. first, if i may, let me turn back to the start. my childhood friend, leona x moved to syracuse with her family. at fifteen the choice was not hers. so we had a tearful separation. the problem child that I was made it hard to find a replacement, thus began my solo act. red jersey short sleeved t-shirt with zippered collar over purple short shorts with two inch cuffs and little abner boots, no socks, completed with a four inch ivory and jade filter holding my eve cigarette as i walked down junction boulevard allowed me to remain on my own.
“hey little black bitch.”
“your mother." though she was columbian, that was my response to david, the man who gave me my first tongue kiss at the tender age of eleven. unable to cope with my outgrowing his four year older ass, he’s resorted to petty taunts.
i never cared what people thought of me. i began smoking at eight, but did it on my own because i wanted to feel like marlene dietrich or a 1940’s femme fatale. though i lived it for real, it was all in my mind. my mother lost control of me. fuck it, i lost control of myself and began to hang out with the bad boys. a year later i left home and moved into a south bronx abandoned building. in our squat loom we danced to the boombox, making love like some of joan didion’s lost children. i was always ready for the game.
somewhere in between ibegan to get excited about the thrill. there was something dangerous about my way of life. it became so unpredictable that i couldn’t guess it’s outcome. that boredom i constantly felt began to dissipate. it was like a 16mm bolex film that showed every frame in fast and slow motion. my racoon eye-shadow, torn jeans and sleepless nights kept me in a perpetual sleep-deprived state that caused the type of hallucinations that turned life into the color of chance.
i can say that i was truly happy with who i was at those moments. i magine, to be 16 or 17, and be the master of your own person. nothing could stand on your way. hip-hop, punk, goth, they all merged. it’s not like locker room, coke, methane and quaaludes were my choice of drugs, but they did open my mind to fearless notions that i would otherwise not dip into.
“say, iawa...”
there weren’t many places i would run to when i was in trouble, iawa syr’s was the most likely corner i would seek. short and round, only nineteen, yet carried herself like a 24 year old five foot eleven model. she was the person i tried to model myself after.
“what would you do if you were knocked up?”
iawa took a long drag from her malboro while studying my face. that was her way. taking her time. pouring herself some bitter tea. bringing an extra cup for me as well. placing it in front of me. sitting so close our skin touched.
“if i were you...” she sipped on her tea. thought a bit more, “if my name was lisa, i would go to the women’s center and have an abortion. that is what i would do.” her senegalese accent coolly soothed some common sense into my head. i mean, what was i thinking of...
it took a few months for that listless feel to go away. not that i regretted anything, but i would be a liar to say a string of remorse did not linger. taking time off to reflect brought me to the conclusion that life is a puzzle that holds a special objective for each given piece. my time to take on responsibilities for someone else hadn’t come yet. for one thing, playtime began at night. holding a part time job and having a kid was not the perfect match. that was what i concluded.
(this is the intro to a new story i'm working on.)
a blank look void of personality spoke unchained words. i walked away. there was nothing to add. first, if i may, let me turn back to the start. my childhood friend, leona x moved to syracuse with her family. at fifteen the choice was not hers. so we had a tearful separation. the problem child that I was made it hard to find a replacement, thus began my solo act. red jersey short sleeved t-shirt with zippered collar over purple short shorts with two inch cuffs and little abner boots, no socks, completed with a four inch ivory and jade filter holding my eve cigarette as i walked down junction boulevard allowed me to remain on my own.
“hey little black bitch.”
“your mother." though she was columbian, that was my response to david, the man who gave me my first tongue kiss at the tender age of eleven. unable to cope with my outgrowing his four year older ass, he’s resorted to petty taunts.
i never cared what people thought of me. i began smoking at eight, but did it on my own because i wanted to feel like marlene dietrich or a 1940’s femme fatale. though i lived it for real, it was all in my mind. my mother lost control of me. fuck it, i lost control of myself and began to hang out with the bad boys. a year later i left home and moved into a south bronx abandoned building. in our squat loom we danced to the boombox, making love like some of joan didion’s lost children. i was always ready for the game.
somewhere in between ibegan to get excited about the thrill. there was something dangerous about my way of life. it became so unpredictable that i couldn’t guess it’s outcome. that boredom i constantly felt began to dissipate. it was like a 16mm bolex film that showed every frame in fast and slow motion. my racoon eye-shadow, torn jeans and sleepless nights kept me in a perpetual sleep-deprived state that caused the type of hallucinations that turned life into the color of chance.
i can say that i was truly happy with who i was at those moments. i magine, to be 16 or 17, and be the master of your own person. nothing could stand on your way. hip-hop, punk, goth, they all merged. it’s not like locker room, coke, methane and quaaludes were my choice of drugs, but they did open my mind to fearless notions that i would otherwise not dip into.
“say, iawa...”
there weren’t many places i would run to when i was in trouble, iawa syr’s was the most likely corner i would seek. short and round, only nineteen, yet carried herself like a 24 year old five foot eleven model. she was the person i tried to model myself after.
“what would you do if you were knocked up?”
iawa took a long drag from her malboro while studying my face. that was her way. taking her time. pouring herself some bitter tea. bringing an extra cup for me as well. placing it in front of me. sitting so close our skin touched.
“if i were you...” she sipped on her tea. thought a bit more, “if my name was lisa, i would go to the women’s center and have an abortion. that is what i would do.” her senegalese accent coolly soothed some common sense into my head. i mean, what was i thinking of...
it took a few months for that listless feel to go away. not that i regretted anything, but i would be a liar to say a string of remorse did not linger. taking time off to reflect brought me to the conclusion that life is a puzzle that holds a special objective for each given piece. my time to take on responsibilities for someone else hadn’t come yet. for one thing, playtime began at night. holding a part time job and having a kid was not the perfect match. that was what i concluded.
(this is the intro to a new story i'm working on.)
i dreamed of obama
© 2012 by Mica D'Orléans
Whether it was based from reality or from last night's dream, on the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and a hundred seventh street I heard of this new Portuguese restaurant that had an excellent cuisine, and the food was incredibly cheap to boot. I got off the bus on a hundred and sixth and walked the block up to one-o-seven. Even if I wanted to miss it, there was no way I could, for the restaurant looked like a colonial home surrounded with a white picket fence. It even had a white A-shaped vestibule that was resting on two round columns, and the grass on either side was brimming with purple, pink and white wildflowers.
I cocked an eyebrow when I saw perhaps a dozen or more women queued in line with their daughters, wearing flowery cotton maiden dresses as the busy waiters and waitresses occasionally came out to make a head count. Realizing the wait would be long, I crossed the street to a more modest, dimmer lit bar/restaurant that had its years numbered in the stress marked wood that decorated its interior. I recognized it to be the dive bar before its renovation, shrugged my shoulders, and made my way through its kinda cramped family-style tables with long wooden benches tucked beneath. All the way to the back was an elevated section that used to have the pool table. Since it was less crowded and a bit out of the way, I mozied my way to one of the tables over there. From this back view, I could still see the passersby through the wide glass windows that opened up unto the street.
I don't know what those silly Portugese people had in mind, but I thought that this place where I sat felt much more comfortable than that stuffy pretentious colonial restaurant across the street. The crowd here was more "real" with a nice mix of age and different sexes. As my mind wandered while looking across the street through the opened windows, in walked Obama with his entourage of girls; that is, his wife Michelle, daughters, Malia and Sasha, plus two secret service men. He was laughing with his girls as they stood by the table across from the bar, close to the entrance.
My thoughts were, "cool..." as an incredible urge for a cigarette befell me. Once again, I inched my way through the crowd. As I walked past them I noticed Sasha had the same motorcycle jacket on as I did. She must have noticed it at the same time, because, when our distance closed in, she shyly grabbed her father's arm and pulled him closer to her. Obama looked up at me and threw back his head while laughing, showing his immaculate white teeth.
"Why didn't you go to the place across the street?" I asked.
"Oh, that place." he answered, "I heard the food wasn't all that."
Whether it was based from reality or from last night's dream, on the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and a hundred seventh street I heard of this new Portuguese restaurant that had an excellent cuisine, and the food was incredibly cheap to boot. I got off the bus on a hundred and sixth and walked the block up to one-o-seven. Even if I wanted to miss it, there was no way I could, for the restaurant looked like a colonial home surrounded with a white picket fence. It even had a white A-shaped vestibule that was resting on two round columns, and the grass on either side was brimming with purple, pink and white wildflowers.
I cocked an eyebrow when I saw perhaps a dozen or more women queued in line with their daughters, wearing flowery cotton maiden dresses as the busy waiters and waitresses occasionally came out to make a head count. Realizing the wait would be long, I crossed the street to a more modest, dimmer lit bar/restaurant that had its years numbered in the stress marked wood that decorated its interior. I recognized it to be the dive bar before its renovation, shrugged my shoulders, and made my way through its kinda cramped family-style tables with long wooden benches tucked beneath. All the way to the back was an elevated section that used to have the pool table. Since it was less crowded and a bit out of the way, I mozied my way to one of the tables over there. From this back view, I could still see the passersby through the wide glass windows that opened up unto the street.
I don't know what those silly Portugese people had in mind, but I thought that this place where I sat felt much more comfortable than that stuffy pretentious colonial restaurant across the street. The crowd here was more "real" with a nice mix of age and different sexes. As my mind wandered while looking across the street through the opened windows, in walked Obama with his entourage of girls; that is, his wife Michelle, daughters, Malia and Sasha, plus two secret service men. He was laughing with his girls as they stood by the table across from the bar, close to the entrance.
My thoughts were, "cool..." as an incredible urge for a cigarette befell me. Once again, I inched my way through the crowd. As I walked past them I noticed Sasha had the same motorcycle jacket on as I did. She must have noticed it at the same time, because, when our distance closed in, she shyly grabbed her father's arm and pulled him closer to her. Obama looked up at me and threw back his head while laughing, showing his immaculate white teeth.
"Why didn't you go to the place across the street?" I asked.
"Oh, that place." he answered, "I heard the food wasn't all that."
in my world
© 2011 by Mica D'Orléans
grim nemesis
tainted urges
contradicting life
in my world you can
say it's bloody hell
here, if you see thirty
grim nemesis
tainted urges
contradicting life
in my world you can
say it's bloody hell
here, if you see thirty
everybody knows
it's too late
girls are shells
boys, broken bottles
in love with the tinkle
sound they make
lots of priceless items
to be found here, in my world
where all is for sale, where
genuine holds not one candle
to its counterfeit
a battle worn ground
burnt to a crisp
sleep, eat, drink, shit, make love
it's too late
girls are shells
boys, broken bottles
in love with the tinkle
sound they make
lots of priceless items
to be found here, in my world
where all is for sale, where
genuine holds not one candle
to its counterfeit
a battle worn ground
burnt to a crisp
sleep, eat, drink, shit, make love
a gun holstered to my back
the time it takes to strike a match
becomes fatal like the flag you wave
the time it takes to strike a match
becomes fatal like the flag you wave
in my world
en tou ka...
© 2011 by Mica D'Orléans
yè maten m’ap mache nan gran la ru nou yok lè yon vagabon ki wè mwen konmanse di’m vye bagay ameriken yo renmen jete sou fanm yo. Byen elve kon mwen leve, manman’m et papa’m te moun de byen, mwen kontinye mache ak do’m byen dwèt, tèt mwen byen dwèt, zye’m devan’m… et pi, moun mwen, lè’m fin pase, ti chyen enraje sa, li konmanse ranni pou tout ru ya ka vire tèt yo pou gade’m. ah! tonnè boule’m!! si manman’m et papa’m, die beni yo, si yo te pa byen elve mwen, m t’ap leve bèl jip jòn ak riban blan li, et m tap tonbe ak yon raj etènèl sou kaka lenmèrrd sa! tonnè kraze’m!! (kwipe) an tou ka…
yè maten m’ap mache nan gran la ru nou yok lè yon vagabon ki wè mwen konmanse di’m vye bagay ameriken yo renmen jete sou fanm yo. Byen elve kon mwen leve, manman’m et papa’m te moun de byen, mwen kontinye mache ak do’m byen dwèt, tèt mwen byen dwèt, zye’m devan’m… et pi, moun mwen, lè’m fin pase, ti chyen enraje sa, li konmanse ranni pou tout ru ya ka vire tèt yo pou gade’m. ah! tonnè boule’m!! si manman’m et papa’m, die beni yo, si yo te pa byen elve mwen, m t’ap leve bèl jip jòn ak riban blan li, et m tap tonbe ak yon raj etènèl sou kaka lenmèrrd sa! tonnè kraze’m!! (kwipe) an tou ka…
Pink Petals
© 2011 by Mica D'Orléans
Those beautiful pink petals shaped like angel wings that suddenly appeared like a cloud in the clear blue sky descended upon our world like pellets from hell. It was a few centuries back when they first materialized, when most were fooled by their soft velvety look, that those who witnessed, or survived the touch of their razor sharp edges, joined force to develop a new material called diafer, a versatile magic fiber that when woven to fabric, or blended with glass or metal, would remain as strong as diamond. It became mankind’s only protection against the Pink Petal Rain.
Though it was known that within every fiber in every cell of every organism lay dormant an innate instinct to survive, in man’s evolution, that desire to protect the environment that sustains our existence turned into a more selfish goal, which, if kept unchecked, will lead to our unfortunate demise. Seeing a large number of earth’s population was poor, this protective gear that should have been found in every household, but it fell into the greedy government hands of Nexus, who liberally distributed the fabric to their highest ranking officials, than audaciously used it as a bargaining chip, turning diafer into the most coveted commodity found in today’s World Market, that only the rich could afford.
This and other injustices clouding the government is why many outside of the Union believed the rumors spreading around the old town of Milot, that the sudden appearance of this peculiar rain which falls once every few generations was yet another Nexus-tailored-weapon created to stifle the current uprisings, for, as history had shown, the fall of these pedals coincided with major disturbances that threatened their dominion.
So, when seventeen-year-old Nico Dauphin Ista tilted back his head to peek at the rarely seen sun as its rays beamed down upon his pale sun-deprived skin, with his silver white hair flying wild with the breeze, he immediately pulled back his head into the van while screaming out “Dodge grids up!” from the top of his lungs. And the first pedal nicked their diamond shields, and neighboring grids unfurled to protect the chosen ones, as those lucky enough to walk the streets with protective gears were spared, as the many other not so lucky ones were reduced to nothingness, to a sea of crimson red...
All seven friends, Nico and Tanjoh and Lucy and Suli and Pete and Rimla and Xiaxia, who grew up under the shelter of wealth and privilege, for the first time experienced guilt as they silently took in the carnage taking place before their eyes.
After a few drawn-out seconds it was all over.
Dumbfounded, sitting still inside Rimla’s diafer-safe van, their anger quietly simmered. And with an unspoken vow that marked the birth of a new resistance named “7” - the group that might finally break down this wall of disparity created by Nexus and its five century rule.
Those beautiful pink petals shaped like angel wings that suddenly appeared like a cloud in the clear blue sky descended upon our world like pellets from hell. It was a few centuries back when they first materialized, when most were fooled by their soft velvety look, that those who witnessed, or survived the touch of their razor sharp edges, joined force to develop a new material called diafer, a versatile magic fiber that when woven to fabric, or blended with glass or metal, would remain as strong as diamond. It became mankind’s only protection against the Pink Petal Rain.
Though it was known that within every fiber in every cell of every organism lay dormant an innate instinct to survive, in man’s evolution, that desire to protect the environment that sustains our existence turned into a more selfish goal, which, if kept unchecked, will lead to our unfortunate demise. Seeing a large number of earth’s population was poor, this protective gear that should have been found in every household, but it fell into the greedy government hands of Nexus, who liberally distributed the fabric to their highest ranking officials, than audaciously used it as a bargaining chip, turning diafer into the most coveted commodity found in today’s World Market, that only the rich could afford.
This and other injustices clouding the government is why many outside of the Union believed the rumors spreading around the old town of Milot, that the sudden appearance of this peculiar rain which falls once every few generations was yet another Nexus-tailored-weapon created to stifle the current uprisings, for, as history had shown, the fall of these pedals coincided with major disturbances that threatened their dominion.
So, when seventeen-year-old Nico Dauphin Ista tilted back his head to peek at the rarely seen sun as its rays beamed down upon his pale sun-deprived skin, with his silver white hair flying wild with the breeze, he immediately pulled back his head into the van while screaming out “Dodge grids up!” from the top of his lungs. And the first pedal nicked their diamond shields, and neighboring grids unfurled to protect the chosen ones, as those lucky enough to walk the streets with protective gears were spared, as the many other not so lucky ones were reduced to nothingness, to a sea of crimson red...
All seven friends, Nico and Tanjoh and Lucy and Suli and Pete and Rimla and Xiaxia, who grew up under the shelter of wealth and privilege, for the first time experienced guilt as they silently took in the carnage taking place before their eyes.
After a few drawn-out seconds it was all over.
Dumbfounded, sitting still inside Rimla’s diafer-safe van, their anger quietly simmered. And with an unspoken vow that marked the birth of a new resistance named “7” - the group that might finally break down this wall of disparity created by Nexus and its five century rule.
so many things
© 2011 by mica d'orléans
oh
oh
so many things
come to mind
asleep, with open eyes
reading a book, in the bath
many more come to mind...
i gaze at the stars
in the open sky
orion's arrow
aims to my heart
a heroine i turn to
whose lover moves
a heroine i turn to
whose lover moves
all four elements
to have her at his side
the hot sun
to have her at his side
the hot sun
bathing my back
expands my wings
to all eternity
to all eternity
i look down at the sea
to see my feathers
scatter over the world
to see my feathers
scatter over the world
crossing paths with a stranger
our gaze lock forever
linked as one
yes
in my sleep, with open eyes
in the theatre, at the park
many more things
come to mind...
yes
in my sleep, with open eyes
in the theatre, at the park
many more things
come to mind...
Never...
© 2011 by Mica D'Orléans
...said my goodbyes to last year
and never welcomed this coming one...
since today is the last day of the beginning, it would be good to visit my roots, by which i mean, writing in streams of consciousness as i did when i first picked up a pencil. have no idea what this story will be, but so far so good, because before the image came the ramble and in its wake came a sense of logic...
across the town way beyond imagination came a poor pebble nicked here and there. the sandy surface of the unpaved road groaned an exasperated groan as the nicked pebble slumbered and dragged and heaved about, leaving in its wake the most crooked of crooked lines. true i witnessed it all from the willow tree i dangled from, being bounced whichever way the wind took pleasure in, for directions were not my forté, so with a somewhat attitude i let it be, tuning my attention to that swaggering pebble who seemed to have a knack for pissing off dirt driven roads. a tumbleweed swept along, giving the right amount of scratch to soothe the nastiest of nasties, discoursing the pebble while on its way, towards the bushy grass that was once green, and who, unable to keep up with the fiery rays that bathed this scenery, whittled and dried itself to an alarming aridity, yet finding a new meaning in its new vocation of sheltering the poor.
that's it. welcome to 2012...
...said my goodbyes to last year
and never welcomed this coming one...
since today is the last day of the beginning, it would be good to visit my roots, by which i mean, writing in streams of consciousness as i did when i first picked up a pencil. have no idea what this story will be, but so far so good, because before the image came the ramble and in its wake came a sense of logic...
across the town way beyond imagination came a poor pebble nicked here and there. the sandy surface of the unpaved road groaned an exasperated groan as the nicked pebble slumbered and dragged and heaved about, leaving in its wake the most crooked of crooked lines. true i witnessed it all from the willow tree i dangled from, being bounced whichever way the wind took pleasure in, for directions were not my forté, so with a somewhat attitude i let it be, tuning my attention to that swaggering pebble who seemed to have a knack for pissing off dirt driven roads. a tumbleweed swept along, giving the right amount of scratch to soothe the nastiest of nasties, discoursing the pebble while on its way, towards the bushy grass that was once green, and who, unable to keep up with the fiery rays that bathed this scenery, whittled and dried itself to an alarming aridity, yet finding a new meaning in its new vocation of sheltering the poor.
that's it. welcome to 2012...
blue skies
© 2011 by mica d'orléans
as day swept away my memories it became harder to distinguish blue from midnight. stark madness isn't what it was... it was just that reality lost its charm. Now things are in vivid colors, too bright for my imagination, so much so that it is only dark blue nights i crave.
how many years was it that had passed? does it matter? they are no longer relevant to my current state. strangers look. though it never works, i try to ignore them. there was a tall soft-eyed man with even softer curls for hair who walked up to me with a smile. innocent i am sure, but untrustworthy nonetheless. when i turned to leave the brooklyn bound car, he grabbed my wrist and asked in a clear deep voice if i had forgotten him so quickly. i never forget a face, i responded, then pulled away my hand.
things like that happen often. i seem to draw the past within my boundaries. things i wish to forget, that is. anyhow, as i was saying, it has even become harder to distinguish the blue sky that separates the midnight clouds... 10.29.2009
as day swept away my memories it became harder to distinguish blue from midnight. stark madness isn't what it was... it was just that reality lost its charm. Now things are in vivid colors, too bright for my imagination, so much so that it is only dark blue nights i crave.
how many years was it that had passed? does it matter? they are no longer relevant to my current state. strangers look. though it never works, i try to ignore them. there was a tall soft-eyed man with even softer curls for hair who walked up to me with a smile. innocent i am sure, but untrustworthy nonetheless. when i turned to leave the brooklyn bound car, he grabbed my wrist and asked in a clear deep voice if i had forgotten him so quickly. i never forget a face, i responded, then pulled away my hand.
things like that happen often. i seem to draw the past within my boundaries. things i wish to forget, that is. anyhow, as i was saying, it has even become harder to distinguish the blue sky that separates the midnight clouds... 10.29.2009
13 verses of a secret
© 2011 by Mica D'Orléans
softly a whisper
sounds its way
through a glass
on the other side
broken dreams
awaken
once falls the fever
dust fly about
sparkling the air
misguided little specs
each land
on a follicle
freeing itself
a rustle in the wind
begins to speak
accounting
what was held
within
astounding all
including self
the whisper listens
intent on conveying
each uttered sound
as soft as can be
mingled with the breeze
populated in echoes
silence sustains
finding its mark
unrequested
the secret unfolds
whispered words
a tingled heart
ahhh lasss…
softly a whisper
sounds its way
through a glass
on the other side
broken dreams
awaken
once falls the fever
dust fly about
sparkling the air
misguided little specs
each land
on a follicle
freeing itself
a rustle in the wind
begins to speak
accounting
what was held
within
astounding all
including self
the whisper listens
intent on conveying
each uttered sound
as soft as can be
mingled with the breeze
populated in echoes
silence sustains
finding its mark
unrequested
the secret unfolds
whispered words
a tingled heart
ahhh lasss…
Dream No... Margaritte et Baboul
© 2011 by Mica D'Orléans
The room was pretty crowded with people from the Mid-East, Africa, France, Italy and elsewhere scattered about. They were all gathered to celebrate the official engagement of 13 year old Margaritte with her twenty year old fiancé, Baboul. He was somewhat on the plump side, but extremely handsome, with a deep olive complexion and an amiable personality. Being this was their first meeting, he was quite nervous, sneaking sidelong glances at Margaritte, as though he believed yet feared his good fortune. Though only 13, his bride to be had the rare exquisite features found in some Persian beauties. She had a perfect oval face with the most pronounced widow's peak, lush heavy long black hair, and a slim delicate swan-like neck that was gracefully poised on slim, slightly sloped shoulders.
Margaritte sat there, unsmiling, observing the handsome Corsican man promised her from birth. She probably could learn to love him, but the idea of being promised to someone without her consent infuriated her. No matter how appealing that person may be, to think that while she had spent her whole life being bred to please this man, he was most likely left to carry on as he pleased, with just the vague notion that somewhere in this world there was a bride being groomed specifically for him, and that no matter what he did, or how he looked, she would be waiting for him.
Baboul began to feel tense under Margaritte's severe eyes. He wondered what could someone so young be thinking of. How must she feel to be betrothed to a stranger at 13 years of age? In a way he did not want to go through with this wedding; because of all people in this world, she was the one person he would never want to alienate. He remembered when at thirteen his parents promised him a beautiful bride: Someone whom, they said, already loved him, and who, in ten years from then, he would get to meet. After the announcement, no other words of her were spoken. He did not even know her name. She was always on his mind, but as time went on he began to believe she was just a figment of his fantasy. Now she looked so cold and unreachable... as if she were afraid of a life with him.
No one else in the room seemed to have noticed the climate around them. They were all too busy marveling over the lavishness of this party. Each guest received an envelope with a $720 check. The person in charge of this whole affair was Dimitris Napoli, the man responsible for getting the two kids together. Anyway, as Idel said, the food was exotic and plentiful.
Not wanting to be at that dreadful party, I spent my time inside our small, totally overcrowded apartment. It was hot, sunny and muggy; not even the overhead fan helped. Carlos, whom I guess was my Syrian husband, just sat there with the sun shinning brightly on his overblown body through our narrow window. The only thing clean about him was his white t-shirt. One look at that person made me roll my eyes and grab my pocketbook to go out for a walk. "Don't be too long my lovely, our company is expected at little Margarite's engagement party." He cracked his insidious laughter as I slammed the door behind me.
How can a man give up his only daughter for mere money just like that? The man was disgusting. I couldn't possibly have married him. And, since this was just a dream, I was never really sure what he was to me, that is, other than a big bloated log that appeared in each scene of my small overcrowded apartment... [i think i dreamed this in 1996?]
The room was pretty crowded with people from the Mid-East, Africa, France, Italy and elsewhere scattered about. They were all gathered to celebrate the official engagement of 13 year old Margaritte with her twenty year old fiancé, Baboul. He was somewhat on the plump side, but extremely handsome, with a deep olive complexion and an amiable personality. Being this was their first meeting, he was quite nervous, sneaking sidelong glances at Margaritte, as though he believed yet feared his good fortune. Though only 13, his bride to be had the rare exquisite features found in some Persian beauties. She had a perfect oval face with the most pronounced widow's peak, lush heavy long black hair, and a slim delicate swan-like neck that was gracefully poised on slim, slightly sloped shoulders.
Margaritte sat there, unsmiling, observing the handsome Corsican man promised her from birth. She probably could learn to love him, but the idea of being promised to someone without her consent infuriated her. No matter how appealing that person may be, to think that while she had spent her whole life being bred to please this man, he was most likely left to carry on as he pleased, with just the vague notion that somewhere in this world there was a bride being groomed specifically for him, and that no matter what he did, or how he looked, she would be waiting for him.
Baboul began to feel tense under Margaritte's severe eyes. He wondered what could someone so young be thinking of. How must she feel to be betrothed to a stranger at 13 years of age? In a way he did not want to go through with this wedding; because of all people in this world, she was the one person he would never want to alienate. He remembered when at thirteen his parents promised him a beautiful bride: Someone whom, they said, already loved him, and who, in ten years from then, he would get to meet. After the announcement, no other words of her were spoken. He did not even know her name. She was always on his mind, but as time went on he began to believe she was just a figment of his fantasy. Now she looked so cold and unreachable... as if she were afraid of a life with him.
No one else in the room seemed to have noticed the climate around them. They were all too busy marveling over the lavishness of this party. Each guest received an envelope with a $720 check. The person in charge of this whole affair was Dimitris Napoli, the man responsible for getting the two kids together. Anyway, as Idel said, the food was exotic and plentiful.
Not wanting to be at that dreadful party, I spent my time inside our small, totally overcrowded apartment. It was hot, sunny and muggy; not even the overhead fan helped. Carlos, whom I guess was my Syrian husband, just sat there with the sun shinning brightly on his overblown body through our narrow window. The only thing clean about him was his white t-shirt. One look at that person made me roll my eyes and grab my pocketbook to go out for a walk. "Don't be too long my lovely, our company is expected at little Margarite's engagement party." He cracked his insidious laughter as I slammed the door behind me.
How can a man give up his only daughter for mere money just like that? The man was disgusting. I couldn't possibly have married him. And, since this was just a dream, I was never really sure what he was to me, that is, other than a big bloated log that appeared in each scene of my small overcrowded apartment... [i think i dreamed this in 1996?]
Uncorked
©11.11.2011 by Mica D'Orléans
At ten-thirty p.m. one Saturday New Year Eve, I got unplugged; and for the life of me I cannot remember my name. That Saturday night of who knows how long ago, I became Jane Doe. Some nameless faceless dude wiggling some antennas came up to me, kidnapped my po' ass, threw me in some unknown vessel, unplugged every single hole my body contained, drained me out of my mind and memories, dropped me off in the middle of Fucksville, and turned me into some twenty-something year old bimbo that I would never have recognized. There was not even one thank you note left behind.
“So, Ms. Jane Doe, how is it you do not remember your name, where you came from, even that this here is planet earth, yet you clearly understand what it is I am tryin' to tell you, and most amazing, you are able to talk back to me in such an unlaaaady like manner? Huh, Ms. Jane Doe, can you clarify this simple little misunderstandin' for me?”
At ten-thirty p.m. one Saturday New Year Eve, I got unplugged; and for the life of me I cannot remember my name. That Saturday night of who knows how long ago, I became Jane Doe. Some nameless faceless dude wiggling some antennas came up to me, kidnapped my po' ass, threw me in some unknown vessel, unplugged every single hole my body contained, drained me out of my mind and memories, dropped me off in the middle of Fucksville, and turned me into some twenty-something year old bimbo that I would never have recognized. There was not even one thank you note left behind.
“So, Ms. Jane Doe, how is it you do not remember your name, where you came from, even that this here is planet earth, yet you clearly understand what it is I am tryin' to tell you, and most amazing, you are able to talk back to me in such an unlaaaady like manner? Huh, Ms. Jane Doe, can you clarify this simple little misunderstandin' for me?”
Offff course! there was no use in engaging with this wack-O! His red face turned me off. Making fun of me didn't help either. I absolutely refused to cooperate!
“Young Ms.? Will we have to put you in the thinkin' tank?”
“Oh WHATever! Just do what you gotta do. I cannot help you even if I wanna.”
What else could I have said. I really had absolutely no recollections what-so-ever. Okay, there were some inherent memories, like, from the looks of this place, I coulda tell it was hickish. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to speak my mind, so this skinny prissy little sheriff took an immediate dislike to me. Just by looking at him I could tell he had no room for forgiveness. So let it be what it is, said my instincts.
“Oh, well, 'WHAT-- ever' says you, young sassy li'l thin'. My wife is a good Christian. She believes in saving the world. She would get mad at me if I acted on my feelings alone. So today, you are in luck. Today, I remember my wife's sayin's”
I was completely baffled as to why his speech pattern had none, so, about what he was spewing out, I also couldn't be of help. He must have caught on to my blank stare cause he decided to keep speaking and define whatever point he was trying to make.
“Through the goodness of me wife's heart I will spare you the cell, and instead, send you to Social Services. They might have better luck 'n me.”
With these parting words, the sheriff forever parted my life. He lied though... Social Services my foot! He sent me to some governmental research lab that had a rough time trying to figure out what I was, or how I was made. The truth was, I knew I'd been around. I also knew I was not what I had now become, so the mystery was just as mysterious to me too. But, talk about getting my permission? It was like a big heLLL NO! because, according to their record, I was not an existing life form. Given that I was of adult age, it seems they felt free to plaster my face all over the world wide net, to every organization legally marked to operate, and to every illegal organization in operation, and yet still had nothing come up their database. So in conclusion, it seems, they concluded that i am not of this world.
“Young Ms.? Will we have to put you in the thinkin' tank?”
“Oh WHATever! Just do what you gotta do. I cannot help you even if I wanna.”
What else could I have said. I really had absolutely no recollections what-so-ever. Okay, there were some inherent memories, like, from the looks of this place, I coulda tell it was hickish. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to speak my mind, so this skinny prissy little sheriff took an immediate dislike to me. Just by looking at him I could tell he had no room for forgiveness. So let it be what it is, said my instincts.
“Oh, well, 'WHAT-- ever' says you, young sassy li'l thin'. My wife is a good Christian. She believes in saving the world. She would get mad at me if I acted on my feelings alone. So today, you are in luck. Today, I remember my wife's sayin's”
I was completely baffled as to why his speech pattern had none, so, about what he was spewing out, I also couldn't be of help. He must have caught on to my blank stare cause he decided to keep speaking and define whatever point he was trying to make.
“Through the goodness of me wife's heart I will spare you the cell, and instead, send you to Social Services. They might have better luck 'n me.”
With these parting words, the sheriff forever parted my life. He lied though... Social Services my foot! He sent me to some governmental research lab that had a rough time trying to figure out what I was, or how I was made. The truth was, I knew I'd been around. I also knew I was not what I had now become, so the mystery was just as mysterious to me too. But, talk about getting my permission? It was like a big heLLL NO! because, according to their record, I was not an existing life form. Given that I was of adult age, it seems they felt free to plaster my face all over the world wide net, to every organization legally marked to operate, and to every illegal organization in operation, and yet still had nothing come up their database. So in conclusion, it seems, they concluded that i am not of this world.
what in this image
©1991 & 2011 by Mica D'Orléans
what in this image i saw of a lonely man in his room typing the novel which no one will see. what in this image i saw of a lonely man in his room typing the oeuvre that will never be. i trembled with i don't know what as his image refused to dissipate. my body trembled with longing as i wished his image remain forever sustained... and i wonder why organized religion is so adamant in spreading their word to unwilling recipients. it's just a thought that enters my mind as i reflect on world politics. and i think of foreigners entering alien lands to claim a piece of history. foreign ideas into foreign lands bringing foreign sentiments not understood by both. each side believing its reason. each reason negating the other... i walk into their apartment feeling uncomfortable. obviously by my surroundings. quite unfamiliar to my familiarity. yet beautiful in a strange way. then i became a drunk. because wine spilled on wood was the greatest smell in the world. when you are alone. and i thought. what was this image i saw of a lonely man in his room typing the novel which no one will see. what was this image i saw of a lonely man in his room typing the oeuvre that shall never be... i was born left handed and forced to use my right. and the beauty of the palm tree spreads through my mind. erasing whatever bad thoughts that changed my character. and the wish to join my ancestors became a taste i didn't fight. yet i was saddened by the image of the woman dying in front of her lover. i was sadder than he because it was just an image on tv... and the west conquered all but the mideast. and they are so angry their battle ships are sailing. but it's okay to be different. it's okay to be yourself. it's okay not to. recognize another culture. but the bully doesn't see that. the bully does not realize that it is just as different as the other. but then again whose mind am i reflecting. but then again why do i think these thoughts. like that of the lonely man in his room typing the novel no one will see, typing his oeuvre that never will be...
what in this image i saw of a lonely man in his room typing the novel which no one will see. what in this image i saw of a lonely man in his room typing the oeuvre that will never be. i trembled with i don't know what as his image refused to dissipate. my body trembled with longing as i wished his image remain forever sustained... and i wonder why organized religion is so adamant in spreading their word to unwilling recipients. it's just a thought that enters my mind as i reflect on world politics. and i think of foreigners entering alien lands to claim a piece of history. foreign ideas into foreign lands bringing foreign sentiments not understood by both. each side believing its reason. each reason negating the other... i walk into their apartment feeling uncomfortable. obviously by my surroundings. quite unfamiliar to my familiarity. yet beautiful in a strange way. then i became a drunk. because wine spilled on wood was the greatest smell in the world. when you are alone. and i thought. what was this image i saw of a lonely man in his room typing the novel which no one will see. what was this image i saw of a lonely man in his room typing the oeuvre that shall never be... i was born left handed and forced to use my right. and the beauty of the palm tree spreads through my mind. erasing whatever bad thoughts that changed my character. and the wish to join my ancestors became a taste i didn't fight. yet i was saddened by the image of the woman dying in front of her lover. i was sadder than he because it was just an image on tv... and the west conquered all but the mideast. and they are so angry their battle ships are sailing. but it's okay to be different. it's okay to be yourself. it's okay not to. recognize another culture. but the bully doesn't see that. the bully does not realize that it is just as different as the other. but then again whose mind am i reflecting. but then again why do i think these thoughts. like that of the lonely man in his room typing the novel no one will see, typing his oeuvre that never will be...
Who
lost & found series ©1987 & 2011 by Mica D'Orléans
Who, whom, of course being me, you, hypothetically speaking that is, is to say what is what of what of the logic of things in the conscience of the subconsciousness of the consciousness of an abstract performance done through repetition due to its repetitious reenactment?
Who, whom, of course being me, you, hypothetically speaking that is, is to say what is what of what of the logic of things in the conscience of the subconsciousness of the consciousness of an abstract performance done through repetition due to its repetitious reenactment?
And the Wind Blew
lost & found series ©2011 by Mica D'Orléans
A man blew at the wind and lost. The wind was much too strong for the poor man. He cried. And the wind blew. What can I say? Hell. I guess it's time to go to bed.
A man blew at the wind and lost. The wind was much too strong for the poor man. He cried. And the wind blew. What can I say? Hell. I guess it's time to go to bed.
The Bet
dream series ©1996 & 2011 by Mica D'Orléans
I went down the escalator knowing that Roger was behind me. When the usher asked for the ticket, I moved aside and Roger disappeared. Shit. He knows it's important for me to see this film. Today's the last day of the bet. I walked back to the entrance of Lincoln Plaza Theatres, doubting that I left him behind, but making sure in case I did, before my anger began to swell.
What the fuck? No one can disappear like this. And they wouldn't be desperate enough to win to fucking kidnap the guy. As usual, they probably guessed that I had no money. Dammit.
I go back down to the usher, asking if they saw someone looking like roger, wearing his clothing. Needless to say I was embarrassed. Perhaps they thought I was trying a scam. And I thought about how silly I must look, so I just stood there. Most likely looking like an embarrassed lost bad kid. Then this tall Jamaican guy comes over. What can I do for you, young lady? he asks in his nice Jamaican accent. I tell him what happened. He says, wait a minute, and disappears up the escalators as I did before.
Meanwhile the concession girls call me over and, feeling sorry for me, hand me a book of five; five sets of lottery scratch off games. I do three of the sets and let them finish the rest as I won nothing. The manager returns with a second man and the three of us walk over to the entrance curtains to discuss our problem. The projectionist sticks her head out, handing me a stub and tells us to come watch the movie. but I'm too annoyed to watch, though I allow them to drag me in. The manager likes me. I could tell. he's kinda cute, but not really my type. That fucking Roger's who's bugging me for now. Where did that boy go? And why do something stupid like this?
The movie ended. We mostly talked throughout. It was fun. Like a summer night out in the islands. I could only imagine. The audience stare at me as they file out. All thinking I was giving them something for this. An ironic laugh escaped my lips, but it wasn't worth the thought. I'm still brooding though. Strange, strange and stranger things I guess could happen. Then he showed up in his Roger-I-could-be-cool-not-giving-a-f**k-about-a-thing attitude.
So, I said. My arms crossed. My two body guards looking on. Well Mica, says Roger as he removes his Ban Ray Sunglasses. I think you're trying to hook me. No. Really. Listen. You're trying to push me into some sort of commitment which I don't think is healthy.
I don't know if I should bother answering him. I don't know if I should bother claiming my win for this movie. I can't even remember what the bet was all about. The craziness coming from Roger's mouth plants me in place. It was typical. He couldn't be further from the truth, and no matter what I could tell him would not convince him or any one else hearing this shit.
Shut up Roger. There was nothing else to say. That was just f**king rude what you just did. That's all. What else. in any case I woke up. Hours passed by and it seemed so real that I just realized I had a dream while napping this afternoon.
I went down the escalator knowing that Roger was behind me. When the usher asked for the ticket, I moved aside and Roger disappeared. Shit. He knows it's important for me to see this film. Today's the last day of the bet. I walked back to the entrance of Lincoln Plaza Theatres, doubting that I left him behind, but making sure in case I did, before my anger began to swell.
What the fuck? No one can disappear like this. And they wouldn't be desperate enough to win to fucking kidnap the guy. As usual, they probably guessed that I had no money. Dammit.
I go back down to the usher, asking if they saw someone looking like roger, wearing his clothing. Needless to say I was embarrassed. Perhaps they thought I was trying a scam. And I thought about how silly I must look, so I just stood there. Most likely looking like an embarrassed lost bad kid. Then this tall Jamaican guy comes over. What can I do for you, young lady? he asks in his nice Jamaican accent. I tell him what happened. He says, wait a minute, and disappears up the escalators as I did before.
Meanwhile the concession girls call me over and, feeling sorry for me, hand me a book of five; five sets of lottery scratch off games. I do three of the sets and let them finish the rest as I won nothing. The manager returns with a second man and the three of us walk over to the entrance curtains to discuss our problem. The projectionist sticks her head out, handing me a stub and tells us to come watch the movie. but I'm too annoyed to watch, though I allow them to drag me in. The manager likes me. I could tell. he's kinda cute, but not really my type. That fucking Roger's who's bugging me for now. Where did that boy go? And why do something stupid like this?
The movie ended. We mostly talked throughout. It was fun. Like a summer night out in the islands. I could only imagine. The audience stare at me as they file out. All thinking I was giving them something for this. An ironic laugh escaped my lips, but it wasn't worth the thought. I'm still brooding though. Strange, strange and stranger things I guess could happen. Then he showed up in his Roger-I-could-be-cool-not-giving-a-f**k-about-a-thing attitude.
So, I said. My arms crossed. My two body guards looking on. Well Mica, says Roger as he removes his Ban Ray Sunglasses. I think you're trying to hook me. No. Really. Listen. You're trying to push me into some sort of commitment which I don't think is healthy.
I don't know if I should bother answering him. I don't know if I should bother claiming my win for this movie. I can't even remember what the bet was all about. The craziness coming from Roger's mouth plants me in place. It was typical. He couldn't be further from the truth, and no matter what I could tell him would not convince him or any one else hearing this shit.
Shut up Roger. There was nothing else to say. That was just f**king rude what you just did. That's all. What else. in any case I woke up. Hours passed by and it seemed so real that I just realized I had a dream while napping this afternoon.
not a sound when the toll bell fell
© 2011 by mica d'orléans
not a moan when the first one fell
as though fallen into a somnambulic state
they marched forward
onward to their fall
frail
unaccustomed to walks
shadows of an old pride
slowly walking to their doom
silent observers
kept their distance
holding wounds
they pray time would heal
not a moan when the first one fell
as though fallen into a somnambulic state
they marched forward
onward to their fall
frail
unaccustomed to walks
shadows of an old pride
slowly walking to their doom
silent observers
kept their distance
holding wounds
they pray time would heal
dream ii: laladilala
dream series © 2001 & 2011 by mica d'orléans
i searched the papers for a film to go to. according to the listing there was something of interest playing in theatre x… in x… it was a bit far, like traveling from rego park to astoria, but i didn’t care. as a matter of fact, i looked forward to this little bus excursion.
it always pleased me to watch the houses and cars and sky while crossing the grand central highway. when i reached the astoria/corona-like town/borough, i lost my bearings. i looked around and noticed a pakistani newsstand attendant who was sitting on a stool, conversing with another pakistani friend of his, who recognized my situation. i walked over to him, and asked if he knew where theatre x… was. he shook his head no, but believed that it was in y…&
“but we also have good theatres here” he assured me. “why not look through our papers. you may find a movie to your liking.”
i thanked the man, and did as he said. while i searched the paper, and he and his friend spoke, a third man walked up to me and invited me to his loft for a smoke. the pakistani and the new arrival seemed to be on friendly term, and since i had nothing better to do i decided to go for this little adventure.
the man had a huge loft, which reminded me of my friend stephanie h…’s place on canal street. the large windows allowed plenty of light to brighten this somewhat dusty place. i don’t remember any rugs on the old wooden floors, but i’m sure there was some lying around. the man, who was kinda short, late thirties/early forties, hair still black and a little curly, with a french arabic look, sat on a wooden wing-tipped chair next to a small table in his large foyer. i sat across from him on a queen-sized bed filled with velvet and printed pillows, some with teeny tiny little mirrors sewn on them.
as we sat bullshitting around, talking about movies and smoking his mellow herb, a sante kimes looking woman walked in. she was dressed all in white: white buttoned down long sleeved silk shirt with frilly cuffs, white pants, pearls, huge elizabeth taylor sunglasses, with liz taylor-styled short dyed black hair. she looked at me and said, “i know how to get you to the theatre, honey.
she went to the room behind me and went through all her paraphernalia before joining us with her pipe. it was mellow and cool. the man was talking about rod stewart; her, about her drugs; me, i was just the listener as they revered out loud. some time later the woman had to go on a run, she told me to watch her stuff, which she left splayed out in the room, even though she knew the nursery was connected to it, and one of the little kids could easily rummage through her things. i shrugged and said okay, though i had no intention of doing anything.
time passed and idel came by and lied down on the bed with me. by this time there was a faceless third person sharing our spot. when the man offered us more pot, i complained about my throat, and idel flat out refused, which cocked my eyebrow. why would she, of all people, refuse good pot. anyhow, the man told me he’d make me some tea with it, when rod stewart walked in.
now, the scene was: idel and i are lying upside down from each other, the third person, some young skinny kid, had his head by my feet as he lay perpendicular to us. my knees were bent upwards as he kept opening and closing them. that’s when rod steward walked in. his greedy eyes widened at my flapping legs, and he smiled a toothless smile at me. the three of us ignored him as the man took him to the kitchen for his score. when they returned, the man handed me my tea, which i found too cold. the kimes woman walked in on us and said, “no problem”. she took it to her room and put it on this neat little cup warmer with thermostat and all that was screwed unto the wall, next to her bed.
“are you sure you don’t want any?” i asked idel. “nah,” she answered.
her intentions were to go walk by the lake. rod stewart came over trying to get into my pants, but i really wasn’t into him, so he finally left, and i looked at my tea and that cup warmer that i wanted to invent for myself, and laladilala, a little after that i woke up…
i searched the papers for a film to go to. according to the listing there was something of interest playing in theatre x… in x… it was a bit far, like traveling from rego park to astoria, but i didn’t care. as a matter of fact, i looked forward to this little bus excursion.
it always pleased me to watch the houses and cars and sky while crossing the grand central highway. when i reached the astoria/corona-like town/borough, i lost my bearings. i looked around and noticed a pakistani newsstand attendant who was sitting on a stool, conversing with another pakistani friend of his, who recognized my situation. i walked over to him, and asked if he knew where theatre x… was. he shook his head no, but believed that it was in y…&
“but we also have good theatres here” he assured me. “why not look through our papers. you may find a movie to your liking.”
i thanked the man, and did as he said. while i searched the paper, and he and his friend spoke, a third man walked up to me and invited me to his loft for a smoke. the pakistani and the new arrival seemed to be on friendly term, and since i had nothing better to do i decided to go for this little adventure.
the man had a huge loft, which reminded me of my friend stephanie h…’s place on canal street. the large windows allowed plenty of light to brighten this somewhat dusty place. i don’t remember any rugs on the old wooden floors, but i’m sure there was some lying around. the man, who was kinda short, late thirties/early forties, hair still black and a little curly, with a french arabic look, sat on a wooden wing-tipped chair next to a small table in his large foyer. i sat across from him on a queen-sized bed filled with velvet and printed pillows, some with teeny tiny little mirrors sewn on them.
as we sat bullshitting around, talking about movies and smoking his mellow herb, a sante kimes looking woman walked in. she was dressed all in white: white buttoned down long sleeved silk shirt with frilly cuffs, white pants, pearls, huge elizabeth taylor sunglasses, with liz taylor-styled short dyed black hair. she looked at me and said, “i know how to get you to the theatre, honey.
she went to the room behind me and went through all her paraphernalia before joining us with her pipe. it was mellow and cool. the man was talking about rod stewart; her, about her drugs; me, i was just the listener as they revered out loud. some time later the woman had to go on a run, she told me to watch her stuff, which she left splayed out in the room, even though she knew the nursery was connected to it, and one of the little kids could easily rummage through her things. i shrugged and said okay, though i had no intention of doing anything.
time passed and idel came by and lied down on the bed with me. by this time there was a faceless third person sharing our spot. when the man offered us more pot, i complained about my throat, and idel flat out refused, which cocked my eyebrow. why would she, of all people, refuse good pot. anyhow, the man told me he’d make me some tea with it, when rod stewart walked in.
now, the scene was: idel and i are lying upside down from each other, the third person, some young skinny kid, had his head by my feet as he lay perpendicular to us. my knees were bent upwards as he kept opening and closing them. that’s when rod steward walked in. his greedy eyes widened at my flapping legs, and he smiled a toothless smile at me. the three of us ignored him as the man took him to the kitchen for his score. when they returned, the man handed me my tea, which i found too cold. the kimes woman walked in on us and said, “no problem”. she took it to her room and put it on this neat little cup warmer with thermostat and all that was screwed unto the wall, next to her bed.
“are you sure you don’t want any?” i asked idel. “nah,” she answered.
her intentions were to go walk by the lake. rod stewart came over trying to get into my pants, but i really wasn’t into him, so he finally left, and i looked at my tea and that cup warmer that i wanted to invent for myself, and laladilala, a little after that i woke up…
if if
© 2011 by mica d'orléans
if if were to be
would if be on my side?
for if if and i were to pair
would not have been
been left aside?
would not possibilities cease to be
or never have been
as would have been been?
but if if were truly to be
then on my side it could never be
for if if were to be so
as in my mind if is
then i say if would never have been
for with or without the possibility
of would or could have been
whose fates would also
have ceased to ever have been
if itself could never be
if if were to be
would if be on my side?
for if if and i were to pair
would not have been
been left aside?
would not possibilities cease to be
or never have been
as would have been been?
but if if were truly to be
then on my side it could never be
for if if were to be so
as in my mind if is
then i say if would never have been
for with or without the possibility
of would or could have been
whose fates would also
have ceased to ever have been
if itself could never be
Scope
© 2011 by Mica D'Orléans
Aloof, sitting next to her bay window, carelessly holding unto a nearly burnt out cigarette, Erika Njanda, illegal in many ways, pondered over last night's encounter. Unlike most single women nearing their forties, who, according to cosmopolitan, are at their peak, Erika was the type of woman who thoroughly enjoyed her celibacy.
"Toys R Us" ... She laughed as the falling ashes finally caught her attention.
No one not experiencing it knows what it means to lose control of your mind. Erika, quirky, intense, social bender, possessing a natural disposition to enjoy the insignificances of life, daydreamed herself entering a flame blazed mosalium belonging to her brother-in-law's family, with a single passage spiraling upwards through an inconvenient point of nothingness, cooking in the process, followed by all sorts of principles she loathed.
Aloof, sitting next to her bay window, carelessly holding unto a nearly burnt out cigarette, Erika Njanda, illegal in many ways, pondered over last night's encounter. Unlike most single women nearing their forties, who, according to cosmopolitan, are at their peak, Erika was the type of woman who thoroughly enjoyed her celibacy.
"Toys R Us" ... She laughed as the falling ashes finally caught her attention.
No one not experiencing it knows what it means to lose control of your mind. Erika, quirky, intense, social bender, possessing a natural disposition to enjoy the insignificances of life, daydreamed herself entering a flame blazed mosalium belonging to her brother-in-law's family, with a single passage spiraling upwards through an inconvenient point of nothingness, cooking in the process, followed by all sorts of principles she loathed.
Distracted from the first notes to Febre, her in limbo song from Celso Fonsesca, created unnecessary brain signals that caused a string of cause and effects ahead of her, knowing that what followed the opening notes could only drag her into a listless state. Only cacophonous noise from CQMD, or Smiley Winters could, in these moments, balance her out. Creeped out from nonsensical whimsical innate thoughts sure to be useless, reality of inconsequential consequences began to design fractal patterns into her mind. Contemplation of the meaning of existence became highly suspect, convinced that nature was only fabricated to prevent each individual from gathering h/is/er unique conception into existence.
A light film of sweat from Erika's black honey skin glistened under the moonlight, streaming through her curtainless bay windows, facing the north eastern part of town. Or should it be called a city? Whatever, Sturm und Drang took over, augmenting the angst lingering beneath reason, its elevated nanointh state of no return.
Always... her brain conceptualizing these abstract images, yet unable to control the outcome... erika.... oooh, ohhh... Erika, what reigns can you grab to control that ride!
Forget everything. Return to the beginning. It was a story I wished to share...
A light film of sweat from Erika's black honey skin glistened under the moonlight, streaming through her curtainless bay windows, facing the north eastern part of town. Or should it be called a city? Whatever, Sturm und Drang took over, augmenting the angst lingering beneath reason, its elevated nanointh state of no return.
Always... her brain conceptualizing these abstract images, yet unable to control the outcome... erika.... oooh, ohhh... Erika, what reigns can you grab to control that ride!
Forget everything. Return to the beginning. It was a story I wished to share...
flight of time
© 2011 by Mica D'Orléans
yep, many words are needed to convey how time flies.
starting things... interferences... life... letting go... going back... whatever, ima, here i am.
thoughtless thoughts rambling about this mind of mine, with urge of flight to soar above the norm to untouched territories... is what i search. a constant fight of a boredom in truth not boredom, but a yearning for like minds to share simple ideas that others find convoluted or complicated... is what i seek. be it images, be it words, be it ideas, whatsoever, as long as there is interest to those who thirsts random knowledge, then let it be... 4.7.2011
