Sunday, October 25, 2015


Every time Bloomsday comes around, 
I'm stumped anew. Here it is, the grave 
of Sylvia Beach, and I haven't brought
a shovel. Volumes of tawdry expanse,
dry as a librarian's ass, and nothing to
do but tarry. And tarry I will. At the
corner of John Witherspoon, and the
tucked-in-tumbler of Aaron Burr, and
Jonathan Edwards, I shall wake him. And
the coffee-stained hands of one Farmer
I know and one handler I see, they shall 
be my companions for this derivative,
early life key. For Molly Bloom shall remain
my wife : messages misunderstood, and the
reams of questions, unanswered yet. Yes!
Yes! Yes! ['under the Moorish wall and 
I thought well as well him as another 
and then I asked him with my eyes to 
ask again yes and then he asked me 
would I yes to say yes my mountain flower 
and first I put my arms around him yes 
and drew him down to me so he could feel 
my breasts all perfume yes and his heart 
was going like mad and yes I said 
yes I will Yes.']

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