Author Archives: Ken Greenman

Like the clock works like clock work. Comes around to the time when Mars arises from His bed and leaves behind His last wars dead and the sergeant grunts from his canvas cot and shoves his squad to the killing … Continue reading →

Fruitless to hope for a pool of calm in my core with roiling ancestors blood on my door. No remnants of Eden among flags of the Earth. No respite from chaos around me, for Cacophony lives in my genes. Foolish … Continue reading →

I sit in my recliner, dozing off my daily swim and stretch at the club. Phone rings. My old college room mate, now FaceBook friend. Somehow, he’s developed the habit of starting conversations with “So,…” like he’s drawing his own … Continue reading →

How many times have my wife and I made our bed? Pulled and smoothed the cover sheet, fleece blanket and quilted spread, placed the five pillows just so… A mutually agreed-upon-co-ordinated ritual, fulfilling our need for both the straightening up … Continue reading →

The Devil, embarrassed by His initiation of and humanities glee in the well-learned perpetuation of Evil, decided to hang up his horns, like some aging quarterback hangs up his cleats. Ol’ Scratch, one day, just brushes the soot off his … Continue reading →

Since we are sentient creatures, (mostly), we are self-desctiptive. Barnes and Noble is stuffed with memoir, autobiography, ghosted biography… rows on rows of tomes, written by, or, for us, of us, to explain us to a public, who, (surprisingly) gives … Continue reading →

The poet is a gate-keeper who determines which womb-bound-poem is worth a birth. It’s a tricky job, choosing whether one should be born, at all, into a lifetime of mediocrity, flopping from the chute into a forgotten slot on some … Continue reading →

Poets are archaeologists of life. Down at the site, equipped with pen and paper for bristle brush and trowel, they extract sharp, shattered, scattered shards and calcified bone, fossils from our pasts, connecting us to a millennia of themes stretching … Continue reading →

As skin of my hands and wrists ages into the topography of crepe paper, I sadden as I approach the door, not so much for what it opens out to, (what is ahead is settled, karmic beyond my ken). Rather, … Continue reading →

Horatio: I loved him, of course. They make such a fuss about it, now. But what was not to love? Prince of a fellow, admirable in quality… A real piece of work. Certainly he could be, or not be, a … Continue reading →