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Robert

Roman

Empire

RED BRICK ALLEY STORIES

The Killards Are Coming

Every damn day in Religion Class, Sister Anna Banana yapped about the Soviets revving up to start a nuclear war with the new president, Ronald Reagan. She said after the cities burned to Holy Hell, there’d be something called “nuclear winter” that would kill all...

Double-Strength Demon Dogs

Fantastic Freddie was the only altar boy from the Red Brick Alley. He was always consecrating Ritz Crackers and trying to make us eat them like communion wafers. He light-fingered incense from the sacristy, and he blessed water from Old Lady Tully’s spigot...

Laser Loop

I couldn’t see over the tall green school bus seat except when we hit a pothole and I bounced up in the air like a Pop-Tart jumping out of a toaster. Nobody at Saint Augie’s could believe I was allowed to go. My first school picnic ever. I was good from the day I handed in my pink...

The Boy Wonder

How the Hell did Jaggerbush get himself up there? He was clawing his way up into the open window above the Science class door like a real-life gargoyle. The blockhead of a wooden mallet stuck out of the back of his Toughskins where his butt crack was. He wore three...

Robert Roman grew up in Pittsburgh, PA, where he sold newspapers to cars from a concrete island. Read more→

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My Own Private Ulysses: Not Thucydides, The Ulysses Trap

Apr 13

Updated: Apr 14

Art by Johnny Quintanilla

Not Thucydides, The Ulysses Trap

You crave escape from this Ulysses Trap,

Where my grizzled beartrap brain raves ensnared,

Metal scrapped, rapt by his madcap mousetrap,

Baring rhymes like the mentally impaired.

So, what’s the subject of this crap project?

No! Not the claptrap of identity.

Your oh so special affect sounds suspect.

Faux respect flaps unchecked. Blow…or just spare me.

Who steals tables and chairs from Starbucks?

With no seats, bums can’t sit, your lap sucks.

This seems a vague rant about the real crooks.

Is this yap better than the best of books?

No. This be the verse outside Joyce’s trap:

A perverse joyless ride. Get back in ASAP.

Stay tuned for more spilling sonnets.

Same frothy time, same caffeinated channel.

My Own Private Ulysses: Poetry Workshop, Incident Report #1

Apr 6

Updated: Apr 7

Poetry Workshop, Incident Report #1

So, Robert Roman walks into a bar…

Wait. Who’s telling this joke? This sounds bizarre.

Actually, it’s a poetry workshop…

Aw, Hell no, that boy don’t belong in gen pop.

We let that fool read, there’s trouble always.

Whoa, hold up, that’s never my intention,

I write what I think, then things go sideways.

That’s why your dumb ass deserves detention.

Then this dude says at the workshop table,

“My piece is in the voice of Robert Roman.”

Really? It’s always a bad omen

When your good name is a warning label.

Did James Joyce ever join a workshop or class?

Never, in that Aesop’s fable he’d be the ass.

Stay tuned for more twisted sonnets.

Same torturous time, same confined channel.

My Own Private Ulysses: Advice For My Vice

Mar 25

Advice For My Vice

“Your work would benefit from some restraint.”

Good grief, I thought this was a James Joyce group.

Was there a complaint? Did someone feel faint?

They’ll feel better after a good healthy poop.

“You would garner more followers if you

Tempered your content.” But I do this.

I just said poop. Or do you prefer doo-doo?

I didn’t even offer my ass to kiss.

Oops! I did it again, used a bad word.

Hold up, didn’t Joyce write in a letter

to Nora - “my dirty little fuckbird”?

OK, OK, I swear, I’ll do better.

And what would Joyce do with this restraint bit?

You can bet your ass he’d call it horseshit.

Stay tuned for more advice sonnets.

Same retrained time, same choked-out channel.

Robert Roman