My Own Private Ulysses: The Jeer in the Ear of Bloom

"She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the pillow. He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat’s udder. The warmth of her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the tea she poured.

A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.

—Who was the letter from? he asked."

— Ulysses, James Joyce

Today’s Ezraku:

The Jeer in the Ear of Bloom

Jingle of invisible brass under my bed:

Tingle of risible ass-plunder, my dread.

My Own Private Ulysses: In the Hush of the Morning Kitchen

"They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder what I look like to her."

- Ulysses, James Joyce

Today’s Ezraku:

In the Hush of the Morning Kitchen

A mysterious meow, like a human ooh:

Molly’s mating call, not for you, not for you…

P.S.

Click for a boots-on-the-ground 2024 Bloomsday Ezraku.

In the Beginning of the Evergreen End

In the Beginning of the Evergreen End

First the fall came for the summer, I did not speak out, for I was evergreen. Then they came for the pumpkins, and I did not speak out, because I was not a pumpkin. Then they came for the turkeys, and I did not speak out, because I was not a turkey. Then they came for me, and I could not flee, I was a goddamn tree. Whose urges spur these back-to-back, back-to-school purges? Who seeks to jackknife orange gourds, goring them in their own image, then wreak swords on flightless fowl while they peek at lines of scrimmage? Silently, I shriek at the tight cords that cut into me surging with voltage, blighting the moonlight with blinking bright lights electrifying my plight. Why do you carve everything in sight? Because you starve? Or take delight in unstoring your might? Or are you so bored you soar overboard making everything your smorgasbord. Are there some retro rites that afford you this right to smite? Or is your sicko spite its own dark reward? History’s arc is bending, terror’s trending, our story’s wending toward this evergreen end. So this I’ve penned, a distressed friend request. Forget speaking out, we’re at the dead-end. This is good-bye. All I wish for is a simple reply. Please don’t forget to hit send.