I Want To Write About My Old Dad, Bo
But I just can’t. I’m stuck with old James Joyce.
Dad had plus ninety years. They were brisk ones.
He heard midnight’s chimes, felt cold morning suns.
As these thoughts thrive, they wilt my weak, weak voice.
We read together: Mick’s main man, Jackson Lamb,
We loved The Good Lord Bird by James McBride,
And cried with laughs at Beatty’s greatest jam
The Sellout. Then there’s Flashman, what a ride.
Go look at the film based on Joyce’s book,
See Bo and Milo share the same browed eyes,
Which might make you think that each was a schnook.
But no, to life’s joke, both rascals were wise.
So, yeah, I see Bo in Leopold Bloom.
And in my mirror? His old son, I presume.
- Sep 7, 2025
Updated: Nov 23, 2025
(Oliver Flitcroft of the Volta Theatre Co.)
To Buck Or Not To Buck
I want to be the Buck for Bloomsday next.
Oh, what a dream to not give any fucks
And mock it all, completely unperplexed.
There better not be any other Bucks
To block my cocky walk ‘round Dublin town,
While swinging freely underneath this robe.
Is pendulum too long a common noun
For my improper little languid lobe?
Wait, what about the real-life Gogarty?
You’re giving credence to the Joyced-up myth;
He’d say, “It ain’t me!” like John Fogerty,
“Unfortunately, son, I plead the fifth.”
The buck stops here. This ‘real-life’ you speak of,
Way up, between each cheek, give it a shove.
- Jul 30, 2025
Trojan Horse Club
You scholars need to blinker Joyce’s stead
By binding her with Cyclopy, blind eye,
And ogling Odyssey as if it’s creed
While hiding Homer’s A-side. Do tell why.
My God! What have you done, you goddamned fool!
By Stuart Gilbert we do bore our class.
His Odyssey’s the one true holy rule!
Why jam this heresy way up our ass?
What is the title of this tour de force:
The man who won the war. Your eyes have missed
The A-side that’s inside this Trojan Horse.
On paper, episode names don’t exist.
The gift of insight’s in “Helen of Joyce.”
Scales felled might feel like Hell, but sight’s a choice.