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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: Ulysses Edition Questions

May 22, 2024

Ulysses Edition Questions

Why the mouth foam over which edition?

What zealot made this a competition?

Do they bow to Blakean tradition?

And think friendship lies in opposition?

Or is this lust for incineration?

Could they truly crave book-conflagration?

Is their secret urge self-immolation?

Or ice-cold total annihilation?

Do they prance down the road to perdition?

Masking priggery as erudition?

What’s next with these prudes? Prohibition?

Or call some smart-ass semiotician?

How to end this Joycean Inquisition?

Just embrace the joys of juxtaposition.

My Own Private Ulysses: On James Joyce. 2024

May 15, 2024

On James Joyce. 2024

What needs James Joyce for these reheated clones,

The belabored rhymes and cold homophones,

Or, that his name and fame should be undid

By self-appointing who crave to forbid?

Master of the modern, breaker of frame,

What needs you such poor players of your game?

That in their blunder and befuddlement,

Your immortality you did cement.

For wile, I push my dainty dessert cart,

Your minced riddles humble every pie chart.

Do they believe your art’s gobbledygook,

The most impressive feast ever to cook?

They taste then lie, when as this they should try,

Compliment the chef, as did Satan’s guy.

My Own Private Ulysses: Still Not a Poet

May 6, 2024

Still Not a Poet

No, I can’t quote James Joyce chapter and verse,

I have no solve for his Gordian Knot.

And when I converse, I rarely coerce.

I’m not a scholar, I just rhyme a lot.

So, you’re a cultivator of the vine? `

Or, like Dude’s line, a human paraquat?

Fine, you opine on thine wine, I decline.

I’m not a critic, I just rhyme a lot.

From itself, poetry staged secession.

As simile stands, there’s like a boycott.

Invention sold out for self-expression.

I’m not a poet, I just rhyme a lot.

But on Joyce I’m big fun, a good layer,

I just crushed a lil’ pun for you, player.

Robert Roman