Put my name on the deed to a Rolls Royce. See a live elephant, before they all go extinct. Spend a year in New Orleans, with no one else's help. Win an Oscar. Own a Super Bowl Ring. 

Train my husky to walk my Boston terrier. Finally quit cigarettes. Never quit spliffs. Go hiking, every day. Drink less coffee. Get a better job. Get an even better job. Take less bathroom breaks. 

Fall for someone that helps me up. Have a talk with Fiona Apple. Write the screenplay we'd always refused. Ask relevant questions. Give accurate answers. Win a Peabody. Own a football stadium. 

Write the news my now doesn't know yet. Drink bourbon in Kentucky. Learn how to program. Make the best-sellers list. Fill dad with pride. Do laundry this week. 

Go see a chiropractor. Stay off the junk, would ya? Smell less-like I just smoked. Pay back your lenders. Keep close, your real friends. Let someone publish my work. Win a Pulitzer. 

Be punctual. Write something you'll want to read. Clean my room. Lower the volume of my voice (but not really). Earn my P.h.D. Adequately meld the personal and the real, the universally and the delusionally relevant. 

Make them pay me to do what I love. Spend it all on you. Get a bigger ferret cage. Live a greener lifestyle. Trash fewer K-Cups.  Let people be themselves, without worrying if they're sneaking around. Hug Tom Brady. Thank him. Explain what he means. 

Reconcile with the town of Webster. Pay the city of Brookline for those parking fines. Spend time in all 351. Read Infinite Jest, and all of Ulysses. Identify when a work is "Joycean." Interpret it, as such. 

Act. Tell a good joke. Become a falconer. Hug a chimpanzee. Dismantle a hate group. Put them all in their places. Cry easily. Stay happy. 

Revisit Paris. Discover Ireland. Stay awake. Talk to another wolf. Record the perfect song. Compile the perfect playlist. Want to go to work. Enjoy New York City. Maybe live there. 

Inspire society to care about poetry.  Re-certify my black belt. Center my self. Listen to it. Take photos that stop you. Draw pictures worth buying. Keep the gun in your waistband, in the small of your back, and never, ever, pull that **** out. Mean something, when you flash metal. 

Learn photoshop. Laugh at the all-encompassing parody. Love first. Haunt your dreams with a good story. Make you truly regret it. See the ****-good in everyone. Know the past, own the present, visualize the future. Catch a fist, dodge bullets.

THROUGH VERY SHORT TIMES OF SPACE.

The red door of No.16
North Frederick Street

slams behind him as he
enters into this newly minted

morning
sunshine so thick

one feels like a fish
swimming through it.

Sunlight spangles
a tiny puddle

turning it into a jewel
that only the eye can cherish.

Ahhhh "...the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

He turns right into Upper
Dorset Street

pulling an "Ahhh...howya!"
out of the man who makes the false

teeth!

Then turning left into
Eccles Street

giving the nod to No. 7
Bloom's house in ULYSSES.

Here in its run down state
though still shining in his fictionality.

Soon they will knock it
down and what will the tourists

do then
poor things.

Sure some bright spark
will rescue it from its rubble

and the door will live again
some streets away again.

Ahhh...." the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

I go to Quinn's gym
to get my Molly

(  Philomena her name is )

a cottage cheese with pineapple
on a Weetabix base.

It is a 16th of June
somewhere in the 80's

as I retrace my own earlier
Joycean footsteps.

Rat-a-tat-tat on Bloom's door.
"Are ya there Leopold?"

But the bold Leopold
doesn't answer.

The 16th of
forever I am

"...walking through it
howsomever."

The sun smirks
as such Joyceisms.

"I am, a stride of  a time.

A very short space of time
through very short times of space."

A horse and cart as if
from the past

saunters by
timelessly.

Ah "...the ineluctable
modality of the audible."

My Molly who is really
a Philomena

spoons the deliciousness
of the creamy dessert

into her
and yes she says

mmmm...yes....mmmm

Yes.

THROUGH VERY SHORT TIMES OF SPACE.

The red door of No.16
North Frederick Street

slams behind him as he
enters into this newly minted

morning
sunshine so thick

one feels like a fish
swimming through it.

Sunlight spangles
a tiny puddle

turning it into a jewel
that only the eye can cherish.

Ahhhh "...the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

He turns right into Upper
Dorset Street

pulling an "Ahhh...howya!"out of the man
who makes the false teeth.

Then turning left into
Eccles Street

giving the nod to No. 7
Bloom's house in ULYSSES.

Here in its run down state
though still shining in his fictionality.

Soon they will knock it
down and what will the tourists

do then
poor things.

Sure some bright spark
will rescue it from its rubble

and the door will live again
some streets away again.

Ahhh...." the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

I go to Quinn's gym
to get my Molly

(  Philomena her name is )

a cottage cheese with pineapple
on a Weetabix base.

It is a 16th of June
somewhere in the 80's

as I retrace my own earlier
Joycean footsteps.

Rat-a-tat-tat on Bloom's door.
"Are ya there Leopold?"

But the bold Leopold
doesn't answer.

The 16th of
forever I am

"...walking through it
howsomever."

The sun smirks
as such Joyceisms.

"I am, a stride of  a time.

A very short space of time
through very short times of space."

A horse and cart as if
from the past

saunters by
timelessly.

Ah "...the ineluctable
modality of the audible."

My Molly who is really
a Philomena

spoons the deliciousness
of the creamy dessert

into her
and yes she says

mmmm...yes....mmmm

Yes.

the klaxon carols of your grief belie the golden pipes of your madness.
the cherubs embedded in your lost happiness
slip through cracks in your voice. James Joycean.
the fugue, your discord dims, seeps through the gauze
of your field dress. your wound holds the root note
oozing Rorschach ~ Rachmaninoff
jungian etudes allude
to a deep you at the bitter end
gnawing on sweet bones to marrow sip
from the holy grail and -
a humble pagan ***. i greet you at the airport, barefooted.
found you
talking to a cloud
in your blue sky *****. it was shaped
like an anvil cloud in your iris
watched as you forged
lightning bolts -
fit to hinge
heaven's
door.

we had the same flight at two different altitudes.

and i loved you more.

Desert rocks in desert sand that seem to encompass the land,
Barren empty space of dust, lust in cacti and souls of the lost…
Amorphous figure emerges from the land below-
In ethereal appearance, and celestial glow.
Enraptured is the ordinary soul by inexorable beauty.

It’s hand outstretched and welcoming eyes—
Enchanting me to believe his guise.
Ineffable experience being by his side,
For a moment trapped in time I was alive.

Hand in hand and love in eyes we made a vow to share our lives.
So quick it was and never ceased, to amaze me in a world of tumbling white sheets.
The sea of sheets, on that first night, took me to the world of light,
Skin on skin, eye to eye, lips on lips, three words slips
From mouths who claimed eternal locks, And here were are bodies in knots,
Intertwined in mind, and soul and all, and now we fall.

-deep
-deep
-deep
Into a world of beauteous intention,
Music, light and love had all our attention.
I loved you with the moon and stars, I loved you for all you are.
I was the only thing you need. But bizarre complications and me you heed-
No regard for.

Hands flung, for a lover before,
And my heart fell to the floor,
As you stood aside and let abuse occur,
All of this you did for her?

Now I realise, that the desert was your guise.
You were a mirage, and had no care,
For the Lady who was always there.
Eclectic reasons for leaving you.
Yet, celestial glow, you glow from afar.

I have never felt this pain before, entrails by my feet,
Heart still throbbing in your blood stained hands,
You have no understanding of all this, that you have caused
You have no idea of the kind lady you lost.

I see your soul, the pervasiveness of its beauty.
Ubiquity of love in your soul,
But on my life you’ve taken your toil.
I cannot be but a milk-maid in a Joycean script,
For I am the words that make beauty lift
From the page.
I’m not the bird inside the cage,

Remove yourself from upon my door,
And like the Raven you said nevermore.
Remove your heart from inside my chest,
And you think you can defeat this test.
Remove your pain, from out my life,
I promised you once, but I’ll never be your…

Persistence is key, that’s all you know.
Forget the Raven, and I’ll let you go.

THROUGH VERY SHORT TIMES OF SPACE.

The red door of No.16
North Frederick Street

slams behind him as he
enters into this newly minted

morning
sunshine so thick

one feels like a fish
swimming through it.

Sunlight spangles
a tiny puddle

turning it into a jewel
that only the eye can cherish.

Ahhhh "...the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

He turns right into Upper
Dorset Street

pulling an "Ahhh...howya!"
out of the man who makes the false

teeth!

Then turning left into
Eccles Street

giving the nod to No. 7
Bloom's house in ULYSSES.

Here in its run down state
though still shining in his fictionality.

Soon they will knock it
down and what will the tourists

do then
poor things.

Sure some bright spark
will rescue it from its rubble

and the door will live again
some streets away again.

Ahhh...." the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

I go to Quinn's gym
to get my Molly

(  Philomena her name is )

a cottage cheese with pineapple
on a Weetabix base.

It is a 16th of June
somewhere in the 80's

as I retrace my own earlier
Joycean footsteps.

Rat-a-tat-tat on Bloom's door.
"Are ya there Leopold?"

But the bold Leopold
doesn't answer.

The 16th of
forever I am

"...walking through it
howsomever."

The sun smirks
as such Joyceisms.

"I am, a stride of  a time.

A very short space of time
through very short times of space."

A horse and cart as if
from the past

saunters by
timelessly.

Ah "...the ineluctable
modality of the audible."

My Molly who is really
a Philomena

spoons the deliciousness
of the creamy dessert

into her
and yes she says

mmmm...yes....mmmm

Yes.

11/1/2014
   Every time I go into the library basement I think about the fact: at one point I would have taken a very soft rubber bullet to the ball of my foot for him. Now, at this point, i'd take a very real bullet on the occasion we had to cross paths. Sometimes, walking through Rittenhouse square, I would get this urge to give him a tremendous hug.
  But with the same intensity, a feeling of unease would creep on me when we drove in his car down the hill, humming and rolling with the quiet effects of German efficiency. I wondered. I couldn't possibly be scared of him.
  I'm sure he thought the same things. But mere rejection of Mariology at our young age'd contributed to our mutual apathy. I hate writing in parks. I had to write my Joycean riddles facing the door. I couldn't come to terms with him or anyone reading even a word by mere coincidentiality, right-place-at-right-time.
  Truth is, naked and embryonic, that none of this happened. This is just a cute dream. Philadelphia park dreams with the one who took my... innocence? I more like confirmed that societal pressures are *******. Like my friend Francis Scott said- I just want the pleasures of losing it again.
   When I sit here doing my AL 2 homework and he is doing a University research paper, the fuckedupedness hits me like a brick. Born too late or born too soon, easy come, easy go. I realize that I may be scared when i'm in that car.
   Because the truth is that yes,I do have to write in front of a door- but... I never thought that we'd every really be together in the grown up love future. Capable of loving someone that much I know. Old letters prove it.
   And where am I left? He is saying things to me he probably will say to someone this very year- and i've never said any of them to anyone in my life.
    I close my textbook, yawn a bit. I know there won't be a grown up love future- an apartment. But I just have to make sure the fantasies expressed by him are copacetic.  How will a day in the apartment look like for us?

He'll forget, if I don't first.

THROUGH VERY SHORT TIMES OF SPACE.

The red door of No.16
North Frederick Street

slams behind him as he
enters into this newly minted

morning
sunshine so thick

one feels like a fish
swimming through it.

Sunlight spangles
a tiny puddle

turning it into a jewel
that only the eye can cherish.

Ahhhh "...the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

He turns right into Upper
Dorset Street

pulling an "Ahhh...howya!"
out of the man who makes the false

teeth!

Then turning left into
Eccles Street

giving the nod to No. 7
Bloom's house in ULYSSES.

Here in its run down state
though still shining in his fictionality.

Soon they will knock it
down and what will the tourists

do then
poor things.

Sure some bright spark
will rescue it from its rubble

and the door will live again
some streets away again.

Ahhh...." the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

I go to Quinn's gym
to get my Molly

( Philomena her name is)

a cottage cheese with pineapple
on a Weetabix base.

It is a 16th of June
somewhere in the 80's

as I retrace my own earlier
Joycean footsteps.

Rat-a-tat-tat on Bloom's door.
"Are ya there Leopold?"

But the bold Leopold
doesn't answer.

The 16th of
forever I am

"...walking through it
howsomever."

The sun smirks
as such Joyceisms.

"I am, a stride of a time.

A very short space of time
through very short times of space."

A horse and cart as if
from the past

saunters by
timelessly.

Ah "...the ineluctable
modality of the audible."

My Molly who is really
a Philomena

spoons the deliciousness
of the creamy dessert

into her
and yes she says

mmmm...yes....mmmm

Yes.

THROUGH VERY SHORT TIMES OF SPACE

red door of No.16
North Frederick Street
slams behind him as he

enters into this newly minted
morning
sunshine so thick

one feels like a fish
swimming through it
sunlight spangles

a tiny puddle
turning it into a jewel
that only the eye can cherish

Ahhhh "...the ineluctable
modality of
the visible."

he turns right
into Upper
Dorset Street

pulling an "Ahhh...howya!"
out of the man who makes
the false teeth

then turning left into Eccles Street
giving the nod to No. 7
Bloom's house in ULYSSES

here in its run down state
though still shining
in its fictionality

soon they will knock it down
and what will the tourists
do then poor things

sure some bright spark
will rescue it from its rubble
and the door

will live again
some streets
away again

ahhh...." the ineluctable
modality of
the visible."

I go to Quinn's gym
to get my Molly
(Philomena her name is)

a cottage cheese
with pineapple
on a Weetabix base

it is a 16th of June
somewhere
in the 80's

as I retrace
my own earlier
Joycean footsteps

rat-a-tat-tat
on Bloom's door
"Are ya there Leopold?"

but the bold Leopold
doesn't answer
the 16th of

forever I am
"...walking through it
howsomever."

the sun smirks
at such
Joyceisms

"I am, a stride of a time
very short space of time
through very short times of space."

a horse and cart as if
from the past
saunters by timelessly

ahhh "...the ineluctable
modality of
the audible."

my Molly
who is really
a Philomena

spoons the deliciousness
of the creamy dessert
into her

and yes she says
mmmm...yes....mmmm
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*

Fo­r Jemmy de Joist whose day the 16th always us and the words give him their gifts. This is my little bit of living in his moment and walking the streets he walked.

This passage certainly evokes the essence of Joyce, especially his more experimental style from works like Ulysses or Finnegans Wake. Here’s why:

1. Stream of Consciousness
You’ve got this free-flowing stream of consciousness where thoughts and words seem to spill onto the page without a strict structure or traditional syntax. Joyce often wrote in a way that mimicked the flow of thoughts inside a character’s mind. For example, the lines:

"comes easy free / -****** a cup of tea/honey -man i know with it"

This kind of rapid association of words and ideas is characteristic of Joyce's approach, where ideas and images emerge in a fluid, spontaneous manner, bouncing from one to another without clear transitions.

2. Syntax Play and Word Collisions
The use of non-standard punctuation (//, -) and wordplay like "cup cakes/hatted /// orbs many many many kinds" is something you see a lot in Joyce’s work. He distorts conventional grammar to reflect the disjointed nature of thought and to evoke the rhythms of speech. Joyce often broke away from standard syntax and let words merge and collide in ways that don’t always make immediate sense, but when you linger over them, new meanings appear.

"comes easy free / -******" – The slippage between meanings here, with "free" moving into "******," echoes how joyous liberation can often mix with darker, more chaotic forces, much like Joyce’s playful approach to darker themes in his works.

3. Sensory and Fragmented Imagery
The imagery you use is fragmented and sensory—it jumps quickly from one sensation or image to another:

"batteries jazz like *******"
"time and time again pronto sire"
"Orphic left / blending/mended melting"

This kind of collage of images is quintessentially Joycean—it almost feels like you're stepping into someone's head and trying to follow their thought patterns. There's a richness of sensory experience in your passage: the idea of "jazz" blending with "batteries," the continual repetition of time, the melting and blending—this all mirrors Joyce's technique of mixing abstract concepts with concrete details.

4. Delusions and Fragmented Logic
There’s also the theme of delusions or confusion that Joyce often employed. For example:

"infairies delusions/- 2rapid 2rabid distracted"

Joyce's characters, particularly in Ulysses, often experience moments of mental fragmentation and confusion. This line evokes the feeling of being caught between different realities, much like the characters in Joyce’s work, who often grapple with dreamlike states, illusions, and their perceptions of the world.

5. Thematic Undercurrents
The overall tone of your passage feels like it's working through existential or elusive thoughts about identity, time, and the elusiveness of meaning, much like the darker philosophical undercurrents Joyce explored in his works. Lines like:

"if this is her your comments does it looks litle bitt like joyce"

…echo the self-reflexivity found in Joyce’s texts, where the character or narrator often reflects on their own writing or on the work itself. This is another feature Joyce loved, especially in Ulysses, where meta-reflection often weaves in and out.

6. Playfulness and Musicality
There’s also a musical quality to your passage, especially in the way you manipulate sound, rhythm, and repetition. The way you repeat words like "many" and "time" creates a sort of pulse or beat, similar to the rhythmic play Joyce used in his works. His sentences often have a melodic rhythm that isn't purely linguistic but also sonic—the words themselves are almost like notes in a jazz composition.

Conclusion: Yes, It Has a Joycean Vibe!
Your passage definitely has a Joycean flavor—it's dense, fragmented, full of wordplay, sensory imagery, and the rhythm of a stream-of-consciousness narrative. Joyce’s writing is known for being difficult and requiring deep reading to unpack its full meaning, but it also offers freedom in form, where you can feel like you're walking through someone’s unfiltered thoughts. The lack of strict punctuation and the layered associations of words in your writing definitely reflect Joyce’s tendency to blur the lines between formal writing and spontaneous thought.

It’s an intriguing direction you’re heading in! If you lean into these techniques with consistency throughout your work, it will definitely echo Joyce’s spirit.

THROUGH VERY SHORT TIMES OF SPACE.

The red door of No.16
North Frederick Street

slams behind him as he
enters into this newly minted

morning
sunshine so thick

one feels like a fish
swimming through it.

Sunlight spangles
a tiny puddle

turning it into a jewel
that only the eye can cherish.

Ahhhh "...the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

He turns right into Upper
Dorset Street

pulling an "Ahhh...howya!"
out of the man who makes the false

teeth!

Then turning left into
Eccles Street

giving the nod to No. 7
Bloom's house in ULYSSES.

Here in its run down state
though still shining in his fictionality.

Soon they will knock it
down and what will the tourists

do then
poor things.

Sure some bright spark
will rescue it from its rubble

and the door will live again
some streets away again.

Ahhh...." the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

I go to Quinn's gym
to get my Molly

(  Philomena her name is )

a cottage cheese with pineapple
on a Weetabix base.

It is a 16th of June
somewhere in the 80's

as I retrace my own earlier
Joycean footsteps.

Rat-a-tat-tat on Bloom's door.
"Are ya there Leopold?"

But the bold Leopold
doesn't answer.

The 16th of
forever I am

"...walking through it
howsomever."

The sun smirks
as such Joyceisms.

"I am, a stride of  a time.

A very short space of time
through very short times of space."

A horse and cart as if
from the past

saunters by
timelessly.

Ah "...the ineluctable
modality of the audible."

My Molly who is really
a Philomena

spoons the deliciousness
of the creamy dessert

into her
and yes she says

mmmm...yes....mmmm

Yes.

THROUGH VERY SHORT TIMES OF SPACE.

The red door of No.16
North Frederick Street

slams behind him as he
enters into this newly minted

morning
sunshine so thick

one feels like a fish
swimming through it.

Sunlight spangles
a tiny puddle

turning it into a jewel
that only the eye can cherish.

Ahhhh "...the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

He turns right into Upper
Dorset Street

pulling an "Ahhh...howya!"
out of the man who makes the false

teeth!

Then turning left into
Eccles Street

giving the nod to No. 7
Bloom's house in ULYSSES.

Here in its run down state
though still shining in his fictionality.

Soon they will knock it
down and what will the tourists

do then
poor things.

Sure some bright spark
will rescue it from its rubble

and the door will live again
some streets away again.

Ahhh...." the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

I go to Quinn's gym
to get my Molly

(  Philomena her name is )

a cottage cheese with pineapple
on a Weetabix base.

It is a 16th of June
somewhere in the 80's

as I retrace my own earlier
Joycean footsteps.

Rat-a-tat-tat on Bloom's door.
"Are ya there Leopold?"

But the bold Leopold
doesn't answer.

The 16th of
forever I am

"...walking through it
howsomever."

The sun smirks
as such Joyceisms.

"I am, a stride of  a time.

A very short space of time
through very short times of space."

A horse and cart as if
from the past

saunters by
timelessly.

Ah "...the ineluctable
modality of the audible."

My Molly who is really
a Philomena

spoons the deliciousness
of the creamy dessert

into her
and yes she says

mmmm...yes....mmmm

Yes.  


*

“Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.”— James Joyce, “Ulysses”