Each story offends in a different way,
scaring the bejeezus out of publishers.
His scandalous stripping of sacred taboos,
the raw exposés, scald even the printers.
He banjaxes Ireland, insults the English king,
suffers fits, ulcers, and eye problems,
and complains to the newspapers.
His plan to canvass Dublin’s publicans,
a literary pub-crawl with a publisher
to sweet talk them so they won’t sue,
stirs pettifoggery, and, in turn, his paranoia.
Envious fellows, back-stabbers like him,
spread stories of Nora’s liberties,
crazing him cruelly with sexual jealousy.
Using a suitcase lid on his knees as a desk
he composes his gallimaufry of those streets
into Ulysses, in their Swiss bedroom.
By night he carouses with cronies,
vexing Nora, bored by artists, neglect, and exile.
When Sylvia Beach finally publishes the epic
Nora, who never finishes it, sells her signed copy.