kabloona

So many women are masters, some grandmasters. The Original Sinners: They play emotional chess, one move at a time, But always several moves ahead. Their tactics are habitual: guilt, reverse-psychology, the threat, the preemptive strike of blame, the tempestuous bait and switch. You give in. You reverse. You sacrifice. Selflessly you exhale: She tightens the straightjacket. You are moments from asphyxiation when she releases her grip. You, the defenseless dupe, are grateful. And later, you are bewildered: You wonder what happened, and hope that it is still true That the meek shall inherit the earth.

As the cemetery service ended, Margaret climbed down into the grave. The mourners shrieked, and even more so, As she lovingly spooned the cadaver. Death is always a sudden shock of cold. Gone for good are his Gaelic spirit of gab, as much as the liquor on his breath and cigar ash scattered over his suit. Among the mourners, many had heard her sigh, then whisper desperately, "I love you." But, in one last echo of a death rattle, The artist uttered a lone word, "Nora." All present fell silent at that moment. Crescendoing cries were heard from the hole, amid a rising scent of cheap perfume, And she convulsed with a shattering wail. A woman s

I was sippin' a big cup o' hot tea, With a roun' teabag floating on its' side. It was under me nose and me feelin' the air of the South Seas in me nostrils An' I blew that white sail up on its side-- Watched it tack across me cup I did, A regular Portuguese Man O' War It was--the cannon loaded for plunder: Cardamon, cumin, saffron, and nutmeg.

It was a full eclipse in asteroid city. All the space boys were in town. They had just gotten their wages the night before. The trouble had started at last night's poker game. After some out-of-orbit comments about Venus' talents And a wager over her services, one thing led to another. So now Mars and Mercury faced-off at ten light-years. Preacher Pluto shivered and ran off to get Sheriff Earth who was too stewed and hung-over behind his desk. Neptune and Saturn ducked into the blacksmith's shop. The Sun ran and hid behind the bar in the saloon. The Moon peeked out from the barbershop window. And all the little stars scattered from the stree

In my lust-filled, naive youth, great, romantic hope was to be had in the waves of whispers, wails, and moans of desires that blew from record players, stereos and radios blasting 77 Musicradio WABC everywhere. But driving home from work, on Route 35 South this late September, I saw a vision in the sky of the cover of the Cat Steven's album, Teaser and the Firecat--a big, pinkeye, beach ball moon over Sandy Hook, on an arching-over-the-ocean, light-purple sky, tinted so by the gaseous stench from garbage dumps, the exhaust fumes from all the cars and trucks, and the cloud of stench from the perfume factory sitting right behind tha

My commute to work at the time was to take the train to Newark and then change to the Path train to the World Trade Center.  From there, I walked to the far end of Wall Street, to the last building before the FDR Highway and the East River.  On the morning of 9-11, I had exited the the World Trade Center about a half hour before the first jet hit. In the office, I found out about the attack from a panicky phone call from my wife who was watching the news at home.  We did not have a T.V. in our office; so initially, we did not have any idea of the magnitude of what had happened.  But someone had a radio and everyone was calling or being calle

I thought it was tomorrow, but when I was driving to work, it was all over the radio.  Maybe I was in denial.   Now I feel very somber.   While exiting the World Trade Center that morning, before the jets hit, I recall the brilliantly clear sky and the pure feeling of the air.  While driving to work today, I looked up, reflexively, not looking for jets or tall buildings, but just to gaze at the sky, at the weather.

I confess my concupiscence has led to my corpulence..  For a long while I felt ashamed of myself, and I realize that with the passage of time, I no longer feel so--I delude myself that I look and feel good.  Yet, the truth is, the guilt of my gastronomic depravity lies as heavily upon my bones as a millstone. I’ve had always prided myself on self-discipline, but now I think this pride is a grand fantasy of myself, a refusal to admit to being fatally flawed.  It may seem like an illogical leap of logic to equate the latent lack of control over one’s eating habits with the subtle concept of spiritual pride, but Grace builds nature:  

At 11, I was tall and skinny, with a crew cut and horn rimmed glasses. I was the oldest of seven brothers and sisters and a model of obedience. Our parents were highly overprotective and very successful at preventing any of their children from having any knowledge of evil in the world. My father was an elementary school teacher, and for many years, on the day after school was out, father and mother packed all seven of us and necessary belongings, into our wood paneled station wagon and drove to a farm in Beach Lake, Pennsylvania, for a vacation.   Judging by the two barns on the property and all the old farm equipment laying

After much agonized soul searching, I finally admitted to myself that I really need to confess about my relationship with Theophila, even it means I have to go to jail as a result. I met her while I was working port security in San Francisco, inspecting container freight.  A big cargo ship from the Sultanate of Brunei  had come in.   I admit I was not a very upright inspector.  I normally just signed the inspection papers without doing any inspection.  I spent most of my time at work surfing the Internet looking at pictures of pretty girls.   However, from one of the containers on this shipment from Brunei, I caught a slight whiff of perfume