Mt. Saint Franklin


A sort of chastity, pollutes me.

Hinders my reaction.

Makes living unsustainable.


If it were not for the abandoned house.

The left shoe littered by a white line.

Trails purposely marked but deliberately…hard to find.

Clogs in the sleet and ice.

Boots in the sand.

The oddity of it all interrupting the big plan.

Another Freaky Roadside Attraction


Another Freaky Roadside Attraction:

I had been born in the winter of No Love…1967! So, in true pre or post Wanna Be Hippie fashion…the year of my birth became the sign of the Freak.

There are souls like stars, that dwell apart
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart

There had been no other freak like me. No other words to describe ME. No slang, no slogan, no Beatnik generational dangling of truth about ME!

Alas, my narcissism had the better of me for several decades.  With binding blinders off…and chips of shoulder discarded; I found I was a part of a bigger society.  The Freaks!

A true freak. As with a recovering addict, is a freak, the moment they declare themselves so.

Little known tidbits about the Freaks and Fashionable mislead:

Freaks like lyrics that are not akin to their dress! For example, I am considered the Butch of my marriage and therefore, by ‘look’ alone…one would think I love angry lesbian music.

Not so. As a matter of truth, my favorite song to sing in the shower is Roger Miller’s God Doesn’t Make Little Green Apples. I bang out a chorus or two whilst applying my Suave low-budget Green Apple Shampoo.

Freaks occasionally adorn articles of body Art. Tattoos, piercings of unknown origin and hairstyles of the not so rich and not so famous. What is particularly odd about the tattoo of the freak? Many by standers and passersby, believe these persons of Oddity have a lived a down trodden and difficult life.

Again, not true. A freak’s inked body art is not a sign of a hard life but a life well mapped and lived!

Freaks come and all shapes and sizes and we arrive always in an unusual manner. Sometimes by foot with a pair of Converse sneakers circa 1950’s style. Sometimes by virtue of a squad car. And, sometimes, by two-wheeled motored percussion.

My two-wheeled instrument of travel Black Betty, is a moped. This freak and her bike, like many others, choose moped-ing not because I had a wish to be different but because I adore the feeling of free-falling.

My family of Freaks is given to me due to loyal misfit findings not particularly by blood. Freaks always know the value of the following statement:

‘Those who betray us are often persons of ‘relative’ importance!’

In the mid 80’s with a great deal of difficulty my path of seeking Freaks and their Roadside Attractions, took a detour to normalacy…as we understand it to be.

I became bored, listless and lacking in color. In short, I became a part of the problem not the piece of the solution.

Like a dirty dog out of pond scum water…I quickly shook free of the changes of conformity. It was not much later that I found myself another off the beaten path Roadside Attraction…teaching myself to write left handed…just because I could!


House by the Side of the Road


There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths
Where highways never ran-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner’s seat
Nor hurl the cynic’s ban-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife,
But I turn not away from their smiles and tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish – so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat,
Or hurl the cynic’s ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.