Prehistoric Feet

As trite as it can be…I hate my feet.  I do not hate, in general…but i have prehistoric feet!  Much as I do not care about being a model for AARP.   Much as I abhor…classifying persons/people.  Putting beings…being human, in a box of good physical attributes and/or bad.


Much as the world will tell me one thing and I unlike, the automated voice on the end of a bill collectors call; Will immediately begin to take the other’s side.  Much as all this, and more…I am okay with hating my feet.

9 Stories – JD Salinger


I see you are looking at my feet,” he said to her when car was in motion.
“I beg your pardon?” said the woman.
“I said I see you’re looking at my feet”.
“I beg your pardon. I happened to be looking at the floor,” said the woman, and faced the doors of the car.
“If you want to look at my feet, say so,” said the young man. “But don’t be a God-damned sneak about it.”
“Let me out here, please,” the woman said quickly to the girl operating the car.
The car doors opened and the woman got out without looking back.
“I have two normal feet and I can’t see the slightest God-damned reason why anybody should stare at them,” said the young man.


Some days it would appear that nonsense…Is the only sense that shines through!



Crowded by Blood

Odd, this, the red skin shame.

Clans of others…

with roots deeply, weakened by transgressions.

That appear hunted like game.

Had my blood been a search part for organic matter.

A reason to mimic heritage.

But, surely, that would be treason alone.

Or, perchance, within a tribe…the coming of age.

Dreams of nature would cultivate.

Would suffice.

Yet, amassed in blame.

No authority to believe my soul of privilege.

Alone but crowded by blood.

Only shame.

blood 3

blood 2

the God’s Dandruff


The god’s dandruff starts at the post office.

And, with the light shake of a woolly head.


city limits to ragged countryside,

it begins to spread.

p s 1

There are days when travel can be conducted with a vacant stare.

Nothing mechanical…handled with care.

Then there are sequestered disturbances that require…

a  northern style of patience.

Fender benders, just happenstance.

The herd and I,


four wheels that have endured a ridden hard, life.


there is truth to mother nature’s cosmic style and wit.

Peril in watching her shake, shimmy and not…

give two shudders of a coiled fist.

Weeks can pass without a winter rinse.

Dirty and clumsy are the pedestrian’s footfall.

The moon and stars,

hang higher in heaven’s hall.

Welcome mats,

receive no calls.

With a constant toll paid…

frosty flakes of boxed shut-in’s…state,

‘Smoke ’em if you got ’em.

Roll it…as you see fit.’

As the lumbering tale has it…

when the cabin has a fever.

Mother begins to pout.

And, these are the squalls when having a half wit is better than none at all.

Finding humor,

akin to Rob, Peter to pay, Paul.



##New Hampshire Humor:

Statements made when someone is too full!  To swallow one’s pride.




Herding the Sheep

Hadn’t always been a need to flail about.

Not far from home.

Just remote enough,

to go it alone.


Peril clung to hanging flaxen rope.

Ram and rod.

Tusk and bone.

Sheepishly, the somber slates called for more.


Misshapen, hap hazard, no bare-feet.

What a dwelling?

Deposits of life gone by.

I turn away as if, shy.


The welfare of woolpacks seemed… hung upon in jeopardy.

Horns and scorns.

Orphanages of beast…herded without care.

Remote justification of arrogance.

Vainglory, skinned and bare.