Author Archives: Ken Greenman

I pray to pass my years so at my time of death I’m enjoying the time of my life.

Abu Ben Norman, may his tribe increase, awoke one… day in the deep, safe, niche of rapier sarcasm he had honed on the hides of the bullies who had abused him in middle-school with taunts and shoves in the halls … Continue reading →

I will swear submission to your domination so you may forego linen ties and tight-knotted cords. For you, I will clutch the head posts of our canopied bed, smiling behind my cower, while you lavish your power over me, if, … Continue reading →

Was the first grunt a pronoun: “I-” “You-” “Us-” “Them-” ? or was it a verb: “sit.” “rest.” “speak.” “um….fuck?” (hope has always sprung eternal in the hearts of man 🙂 ? Then, from that first word, who aped the … Continue reading →

I am no saint. Instead, lately, I’ve been nurturing a budding intolerance for guilt. Heavens howling hound, knowing sin shreds the silken fabric draping heavens throne, wounds his Masters hopeful, Holy heart, (yet is so human an option,) dug the … Continue reading →

Retaining relational regularity requires rhythmic repetition. Practice. Keep the BPM steady. Don’t push to hard. You might fall on your face and lose your race. Maintain a constant pace. And, kiss your lover, night and morning, just in case. .

It’s on no whim I check the pulse-rate flashing on my wrist as I swim. There are motives for counting BPM: Hubris: Damn man! You’re pushing 70 and your heart’s beating JUST 100 as you free-style your hour in the … Continue reading →

The myth is, there are many possible paths. But truly, there is only the one I could have taken to be here, now. Yes, of course, a diverging path, (I say with a sigh, thanks, Mr. Frost for stopping by!) … Continue reading →

Who was I to wash up on your class room door, December, 1954? I’d just turned six. A victim of systemic gerrymander in The Bronx school districts completely unequipped to control battalions of Boomer Babies born since The Boys came … Continue reading →

Sure. It’s inevitable. I’m pushing seventy. Some sixty years back, I sat in the ink-welled-desked-class-rooms of seven strict, old-school Irish school teachers at P.S. 17, City Island, on the north-east-salt-water-border of The Bronx. Old ladies by then. Some, at least … Continue reading →