its bloomsday, its happy bloomsday

dancing through mid town manhattan in nyc with the bus today and lo and behold, i could not get to any bloomsday celebration even though i was offered the very real temptation of slipping away and never coming back from the port authority (had 50 dollars in my pocket, the per diem...) and had the opprtunity of whilst on my sightseeing, people watching trips while on lunch of never coming back to the bus and just slipping off intyo a leopold bloomesque revery amongsth the towering fire eyed giants into the bomping and beeping midtown of autumn dreams and summer hopes to walk in the streets and watch and dream and sleep and buy a bar of soap, while everyone else was navigating 41st street and lincoln tunnel and hoboken, new jersey, to go imagine the traipse of bloom in the new world and seek out the time when i am not seeking for anything, but to wonder about reincarnation and the path of my progeny and forebears into the clouds and skies and watching for the drooping pigeon shit and singing and dancing bums and the traffic and lapse into the dreams that joyce had while composing a song to the greatest wanderer, ulysses and of his own father and mine, who took to these pages as though they could (and maybe can...) foretell future and past, human footstep and gum underfoot. mr. joyce, thank you for letting us all and fathers that forever be, the chance to dream.