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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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My Own Private Ulysses: My Own Private Man in the Macintosh

  • Writer: Robert Roman
    Robert Roman
  • Nov 24
  • 1 min read
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“Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads. Twelve. I’m thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death’s number. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn’t in the chapel, that I’ll swear.

What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well of all the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell. Become invisible. Good Lord, what became of him?”

– Ulysses, James Joyce



My Own Private Man in the Macintosh


Oh, Hell no, not him, not again, good gosh,

The Whisper Man who talks below his breath,

He’s my own private Man in the Macintosh.

The Ace of Spades, Dream’s Sister, Mr. Death.

And damn, he’s handsome, and he’s got panache,

So well-dressed, suit’s bespoke, not off the shelf,

Nothing like Hellish Hieronymus Bosch,

And never really introduced himself.

The Forty-Foot, The Shakespeare, Davy Byrne’s,

He’s everywhere on Bloomsdays, all alone,

And none recall him. It’s my soul he yearns!

Like Robert Redford in The Twilight Zone.

I don’t care he’s the Reaper they call Grim.

Next time I see him, I just might kill him.

 

 

Stay tuned for more psychotic sonnets.

Same lunatic time, same insane channel.

 
 
 

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© 2016 by Robert Roman - Red Brick Alley
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