The Book About Everything
How to read the book about everything.
You think you’re smart? Where do you start? Which part?
The plot, setting, or Bloom’s limp ding-a-ling?
Gulp it down whole or graze it a la carte?
Slip on your smarty pants, take the sly road,
Hone those three themes: Homer, Hamlet, and Home,
Or home in on isms’ desert abode,
And through infinite sand you’ll crawl and comb.
From rocky hard real- to surreal- shimmer
And every ism across the wasteland.
Or skim past those dunes; no need to simmer,
Just chill with line three, before it gets banned.
Try to pass the true intelligence test,
And laugh, laugh with the book of infinite jest.
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Updated: Aug 12, 2024
The Other Author of Ulysses
No, not Nora, nor Joyce’s Dublin home,
This all-around man enlisted to type.
From Kansas to Paris this vet did roam,
And in Penelope he laid some pipe.
When faced with all that wiggly penmanship
And revisions on every piggly page,
This Yank, craftsman also, just let ‘er rip
And strutted his own words on Joyce’s stage.
When you go down on and drown on Molly’s
Mighty Mississippi of consciousness,
Some wets you sip do drip of west jollies.
And Joyce approved this American kiss!
So, who is this backstage Joyce-enhancer?
Robert McAlmon is your answer.
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Read the offending poem performed at the open mic here.
My mother told me she hated it.
The Open Mic Report - June, 2024
I entered the bookstore, a bright-lit place,
With a rhyme to read at the open mic,
Snagged a seat at the table, a tight space,
And then right next to me sat a small tyke.
The MC announced, “We’re family friendly.”
Oh, I was fucked. My rhyme was illicit.
Now I’m fucked twice; no words rhyme with friendly.
Meanwhile, it wasn’t all that explicit,
Just a Joyce-like poke at Virgin Mary,
The MILF I met in the pub last Bloomsday.
My rhyme joked about smashing her cherry.
Between that and this, here comes my doomsday.
Where Art’s forced to be friendly to family,
We’re right on course for culture’s calamity.
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