The first page of Finnegan’s Wake is proof God hates us and wants us to be unhappy.

Midsummer’s Eve lit up the narrows, the roads to my home

as I pored through the unforgettable tome. I realized the book had finally killed me.

Look for me in the city… I am lost. Look for me here. You’ll never find me.

The lusty ghosts of Dalí and Lorca flirt, Lorca unconsummated and painted in words

congregated with grief the way Dalí wanted it, as our Andalou barked 

up any tree that listened, broken by the refusal, wounded because God hated him 

and wanted him to be unhappy.  The hound!

Write to me immediately, I cannot wait longer to know how you are. Won’t you?

Tell the children how I am, but with the milk of kindness, not of my dreams shouting 


awnskawntoohoohoordenenthur nuk!  I am bewildered by boisterous thunder.

The pain was so great at age six or seven, I wished I might die, and quickly.

Now I am in bed in the bush of ghosts, jilted by my lover, drunk and joylessly babbling.