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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...

About The Author

Rob.jpg

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

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  • Robert Roman

My Own Private Ulysses: Celtic Climate Change


“BLOOM: (Trembling, beginning to obey.) The weather has been so warm.”

-Ulysses, James Joyce



What if Bloomsday was a different day?                

Not weekday, another month than hot June.             

For this dumb question, we’ll stick with Thursday,    

And bobble the seasons like a buffoon,                

Flop-flipping summer and winter solstice,             

And reversing the weather for this spoof,             

Would Molly still cat-scratch for steamy bliss        

Like Helen of Troy on a hot tin roof?                  

Would Bloom hotfoot it toward Circe’s voices,

After succumbing to Gerty’s faux fling?

With all this filth, Judge Woolsey winked: Joyce’s

“Locale was Celtic and his season spring.”

When the tale’s running gag is potted meat,      

Forget faintly falling snow. Bring the heat.



Stay tuned for more June-January Romance Sonnets.

Same icy time, same fiery channel.



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