Author Archives: Ken Greenman

Would I pass by a friendly passer-by who smiled, first, at me and, when I tipped my hat, she dropped her eyes, coquettishly, looked back up to smile again at me, a glance, this time with more significance in her … Continue reading →

Using the kitchen faucet running full blast with hot water and a dollop of Dove to wash a single cereal bowl clean of remaining milk and Cherrios while racing off to rid the bladder of a psychosomatically induced need to … Continue reading →

Only everything: To suck your milk from your breasts; to lick the last drops from your nipples; to surf with my lips on the waves of your comings; to savor your womans tart taste on my tongue; to search the … Continue reading →

I’m 69!!! How I’ve loved that number! But… I can’t get it up like I could before… I can’t get it in like I could before… but, I still can get it on, because, thank God, my wife is open … Continue reading →

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 →