My Own Private Ulysses: April is the Foolest Month

April is the Foolest Month No, April’s not the cruelest month, T.S. And creepy winter never kept us warm. Your Bloomsbury band bred some real B.S. But worse, the crone Woolf froze her own art form. The Book of Bloom was born without a bang Or whiff of gold or frankincense or myrrh. The anti-magi snarled with flash of fang, The gifts they bared: scold, skank pretense, and slur. The newborn thing…