Author Archives: Ken Greenman

It is the Autumn now in me. I mourn more than the Falling. I see, this November, my golden light fadeing into frozen night. So comes Winter to my being, coffined in crystal, buried in white. So comes the great … Continue reading →

A kite, dreaming to be a hawk. A man dreaming to be a saint. A saint dreaming to be an angel. An angel, God.

I like to play to enjoy to fill. I wish to – day, to day the hours of light by playing enjoying filling and when I’m done daying, I begin to night, by dreaming by snoaring by restoring so I … Continue reading →

Dream. Wait. Fetal float. Umbilical swim. Lay flat. Sit up. Crawl, totter, wobble, walk. Stumble. Walk faster. Run. Sprint, dash. Dance. Run. Jog, trot. Run slower. Slow dance. Walk fast. Walk slower. Wobble, totter. Sit. Sit more. Lay flat. Doze.Sleep. … Continue reading →

The moon, with gentle condescension, smiles upon us while we electrocute his night with weeping willow light and blast his quiet with firecracker might. It is July 4th sparklers in New England and he is fully pleased to let us … Continue reading →

It is a blessing he had an obliging grand daughter, did Great Grand Pa Jacob. She let him die the way he asked: resting his head on her breasts. He had buried his wife, Julia. His daughter, Juliette, senile, gone, … Continue reading →

That I am flesh means I ought not stand to close to the Fire. Yet I am called nearer to Glory than I can bare. My brother bore the brunt, but even so I am seared. My gentle weaknesses, forsed … Continue reading →

The salt foam, frail, frilly hem of ocean, drapped lacey on the sand belies what waits beneath her dress. Beware the arroused, erotic sea once the summer frock floats to the tide line. Then she is lady no more. With … Continue reading →

The sudden suprise snake in the back of the garage jolts my heart, reminds my mind: beware the perpetual, possible presence of snake. He slithers across the floor, out the door, into the grass, hides in the bushes, invisible like … Continue reading →

Maps are lies, sheets of geographical, ecclesiological, illogical bull shit. The Atlantic does not change its depth, its hue, its violence at some magical, mysterious point somewhere south of Terra del Fuago to become The Pacific, serene, sociable, solicitous. It … Continue reading →