What Martha’s Letter Said
She will punish him for making me wait
Inside that cold post office pigeonhole.
And the only place he’ll communicate,
The shadows of bridges like an old troll.
He hides me in his pocket, where he’s free
To rip my white dress and then jerk me out Â
and finger my folds and deflower me.
Henry seems kind, but deep down he’s a lout.
When he’s done with me, he keeps me confined
In a dark drawer, locked away from his wife.
But, my words, in turn, have captured his mind.
And when he meets my maker, she’ll take his life.
Martha, she’s hot, and she knows better,
To fetter man’s heart, just write him a letter.
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The Book About Everything
How to read the book about everything.
You think you’re smart? Where do you start? Which part?
The plot, setting, or Bloom’s limp ding-a-ling?
Gulp it down whole or graze it a la carte?
Slip on your smarty pants, take the sly road,
Hone those three themes: Homer, Hamlet, and Home,
Or home in on isms’ desert abode,          Â
And through infinite sand you’ll crawl and comb.
From rocky hard real- to surreal- shimmer
And every ism across the wasteland.
Or skim past those dunes; no need to simmer,
Just chill with line three, before it gets banned.
Try to pass the true intelligence test,
And laugh, laugh with the book of infinite jest.Â
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Updated: Aug 12, 2024
The Other Author of Ulysses
No, not Nora, nor Joyce’s Dublin home,
This all-around man enlisted to type.
From Kansas to Paris this vet did roam,
And in Penelope he laid some pipe.
When faced with all that wiggly penmanship
And revisions on every piggly page,
This Yank, craftsman also, just let ‘er rip
And strutted his own words on Joyce’s stage.
When you go down on and drown on Molly’s
Mighty Mississippi of consciousness,
Some wets you sip do drip of west jollies.
And Joyce approved this American kiss!
So, who is this backstage Joyce-enhancer?
Robert McAlmon is your answer.
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