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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: “Why The Sonnet?” asked the Devastating Open-Mic Controller, Part II

Mar 17

Updated: Mar 18

“Why The Sonnet?” asked the Devastating Open-Mic Controller, Part II

See “Why the Sonnet? Part I” for the why.

Here’s how my sonnet addiction was born:

My gateway was Hemingway, on the sly,

I ripped, “For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn.”

But my six-packs rhymed. Then I pulled the same

And smashed Ezra Pound and grabbed his Haiku.

His modernist battle cry was to blame

For my punching in rhyme and making it new.

Already, I was crushed by Ulysses,

So I drank the hard stuff, took on the Rhyme Lord.

Sparring with sonnets isn’t for sissies.

Bang with the Bard and you’re sure to be floored.

Forever, I’ve been punch drunk on James Joyce.

So, no, I never chose my drug of choice.

Stay tuned for more snitchy sonnets.

Same stool pigeon time, same singing canary channel.

My Own Private Ulysses: For Gerty MacDowell, Not Anne Gregory

Mar 11

For Gerty MacDowell, Not Anne Gregory

‘Never shall a gentleman,

Who longs to be your beau

Wooed by your nutbrown tresses

Lit by the sun’s last glow,

Love your fair, unsullied soul,

And not your seaside peep show.’

‘But I wore nainsook knickers.

And hid my down-below

With lucky blue undies,

So that any Romeo

May love my fair, unsullied soul,

And not some seaside peep show.’

‘I read a wild Irishman

Whose books cause vertigo,

His Ulysses forever proves

That even Bloom, full of woe,

Loved not your fair, unsullied soul,

But only your seaside peep show.’

My Own Private Ulysses: The Modernist Mind of Leopold Bloom

Feb 21

Updated: Mar 17

Art by Robert Berry

The Modernist Mind of Leopold Bloom

We can indeed know his Modernist mind

With thoughts aswirl like the sea, while his words

Aloud are placid, polite, far too kind,

Masking might like heroes disguised as nerds.

Meanwhile, his eye caresses every curve,

Hip, and thigh. His cravings can be spicy.

Dublin’s his dish, everything’s his hors d'oeuvre,

His heart’s warm, but his urges are dicey.

Meanwhile, Bloom is always misunderstood,

Treated as a stranger in his own home.

But his secret life: ugly, bad, and good

Spills across the pages of Joyce’s tome.

Within Bloom’s mind, you will find yourself.

Change your life, pull Ulysses off the shelf.

Stay tuned for more Rilke-ripped sonnets

Same torso time, same archaic channel.

Robert Roman