Hermit Pond

Two wheels, and you can smell fresh mulch…

you can detect new creosote.

Two wheels, and freedom becomes less elusive,

less noticeable in a harried world.

Two wheels, and you can hear all that needs to be heard.

Two wheels, and you can go places…

never remember the names

never remember the drifting.

Two wheels, and no remembering the reason for going.

Always understanding why you came.

on Two Wheels

You look at where you’re going and where you are and it never makes much sense, but then you look back at where you’ve been and a pattern seems to emerge. And if you project forward from that pattern, then sometimes you can come up with something.

the art of motorcycle maintenance

robert pirsig



 on Two Wheels


Far off is the roller coaster…

Transformed, I am a small child, again, and again.

Awaiting my turn.

Awaiting my seasonal ride.

If I could turn the braided key?

Give spark to the engine?

All day, everyday…

Would my giddiness…still feel its sway?

Would I look over my shoulder?  


Or, enjoy the spoils of always getting in my way?

At one junction…in another life…

In another drive-by…

Living in the sunshine, all the time.

The roller coaster…

The ride…

Had lost all method of surprise!imageedit_8_9453278116


On the Boardwalk

Sometimes, it is misery that brings me here.

I once a year declaration to a mirage so close…So near.

With further toil.

I know that is not the end result.

Turmoil…being the Utopian lack of doubt.

The salt that falls between the crack in the lines.

No requiem for heat.

No casket for pine.

Only a thirst in search of drunken kind.

Wheels humming to a string quartet.

Rhythm settling down to wheels on indifferent surface.

A beat lays waste to smells of words not met.

There is sweat, exhaust…

There is dread.

Nine months set to the surface of not digging too deep.

Ten months begin the tapping of my feet.

By the time a call has been sent out.

The fear is gone.

There is no doubt.




Zen n the Art of Moped Maintenance: Rte.132

moped 2

It is not as though I haven’t been this route before.  The best word, which isn’t so eloquent to describe my feelings… had been, green, greener and greenest!

But after seducing my biker butt back into a more comfortable enviroment; certainly, green does not do it justice.
When you ride there is a feeling of isolation.  As if, you and your steed, were the only beings in the world.
As a tear begins to puddle in your sunglasses.  A tear that is aroused by wind, dust and bugs…As that little production of waterfall surfaces to a distraction, you begin to think about…what else can make me cry so quickly?  When was the last time I cried?  Than, of course, the mind wanders.  As is often the case, alone but not lonely at about 45 mph, down an outcast piece of pavement.
Distorted thoughts, faded images, freedom and the feeling of being in a mobile confession booth…hits the rider.
I like my confession booth.  It and the fresh air remind me, this is it.  This is what you’ve done wrong with your life.  And, more prolifically, this is where all the love you’ve given out…has brought you.
These images that fade always leave me curious.  Like the old barns that are dim but still cathartic…placed poetically up on a hill.
I wonder to myself; Did it shift?  Have I lost track of time?  Are the vines that engross it, possibly, more beautiful than before?
I know down deep in my heart of souls and soul with heart…this Norman Rockwell picture will never be the same as, yesterday or tomorrow.
Sad you cannot bottle this feeling.  Take it out and taste it…in the dead of a New Hampshire winter.
Route 132, however, will always be a part of the ride.
Lesson learned today?
You can never out run the storm.  You can elude it for a short while.  You can curse it with bad thoughts.  Your only true friend?  A bridge’s under pass.  A shelter that seems so trite and routine.  Yet, something that can bring solace from the menacing rains.

Down the Pike News

Duh Blonde and the Bald:

Salisbury, Nah Hampsha.

staff writer: Fanny Sharted

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It had come down the Pike that the local order but not fraternal, Bent on Bikes were called upon to perform a search and rescue.

The Angry Lesbian and Grumpy Old Man Landscaping Co., had gone missing.

Better said, Duh Blonde, from the above mentioned company found herself lost in the thicket of things.

“I had yelled and screamed for her damn near five minutes. But I’d been out back pokin’ about with dem funny lookin’ cats. Guess they liked to be called, Tea Cups. Anyways, that’s when I heard the singin….”

Grumpy Old Man, commonly known as, Mr. Clean, had told this reporter that he’d had his eye on Duh Blonde. That the two had come to an agreement to disagree and work together ’bout a year or so ago.

Mr. Clean explained futher the last known conversation with Duh Blonde.

I ran over fast as my  prosthetic would carry me. She’d been singin’ ’bout being ‘A woman and being proud and wanting to roar’ on that funny little gadget she carries with her.

I asked her, “them brakes go?”

“Yup!” she said.

I said, “well, did you put the brakes on?”

“Well, how the fuck else would I know them brakes had gone?” came her reply!

Mr. Clean stated the last notable rant he heard… is one he’ll never forget!

“Did ya’ down shift?” I asks.

“No, ya’ Peckerhead…I was doin’ my nails!”

Mr. Clean, owner of the landscaping company ended the interview with saddened tone in rustic harmony with his un-oiled metal prosthetic.

‘She just gave me the bird like she always does. I thought she was callin’ it a day…ain’t heard from her since!’



Updated editorial on local Woman Gone Missing:

As a dedicated reporter…other than the days there ain’t any A.A, meetings ’round, I felt it my duty to find Duh Blonde and put an end to speculation of tomfoolery and shenanigans.

By chance I was needing a few hair’s cut.   So I got on the trusty moped and headed down to the Harley Hair and Pool Hall. Best hair place in these parts. Always, always, always, having da’ same price no matter what fancy spin ya’ like puttin’ on ya’ self:

 Bull Dyke cuts $10 and Men’s Buzz Cut $12!

As I shoe horned my ass in the stylist chair I heard a voice from the past.

“Rack ’em up boys. I ain’t here to play with myself. Needs me some money.”

My heart sink. Duh Blonde hadn’t gone missing anywhere but here. Still fouled mouth as ever.

I asks her:

“Where ya’ been for Christ’s underwear? People’s been lookin’ all over for ya’!”

Duh Blonde in true ‘ridden hard and hung up wet’ fashion just said:

“That Mr. Clean…he’ll talk ’bout shit ya’ don’t understand. Ya’ better stick to the matter at hand before the whole damn unwinds. So…I just left him talkin’!”