Music and Aliens

Thanks for taking the time to listen to my music. I don’t expect any great revelations or scathing critiques. It’s just nice to know that my music is being listened to by someone out there in that big ole universe.
Perhaps, once a sound wave of music is made, it goes off into infinity, passing by silent stars, forgotten planets and yet unnamed galaxies. Maybe an alien will come across the sound wave and find themselves happily tapping their foot to the beat—–wouldn’t that be nice.
Music is one of the few things that brings order to the chaos—-and for a brief moment provides refuge to the weary.
So my good friend, open up your ears and heart and take a peek at the sound of my soul……
P.S. I’m big on planet Zaltar—-ha ha
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Anti Love song-song

Don’t Call It Love, My Favorite Mistake

Life is funny

Kinda sad, kinda strange

When the one you love, and marry

Aren’t one and the same

Call it addiction

Call it a drug

Call it poison 

But don’t call it love

Life is crazy

Kinda weird, kinda dumb

If the one you give your heart to

Turns out to be the wrong one

Call it a dream

Call it lust

Blame on hormones

But don’t call it love

Heard about love

In poems and songs

How can something that feels so right

Turn out to be so wrong

Let’s go down to the chapel

And, tie the knot

Maybe it’s love

Maybe it’s not

Here’s to wedding dresses

Here’s to wedding cakes

Here’s to love

And my favorite mistake

Here’s to love

And all the hearts it breaks

Still Not Feeling My Our Age

A tune about old folks loving life and having fun, cause fun isn’t just for the young ones. Stay Young at heart.

“We don’t stop playing cause we get old, we get old because we stop playing” George Bernard Shaw

Trump Off!!!

No one can scarcely remember much about Benedict Arnold other than it’s a name you wouldn’t want to be called.  It became an adjective for being a “traitor”, a “hypocrite”, a “two face” and a “loser”. History has a way of putting people like Mr Arnold and others of questionable character into proper perspective. For example, how about the term “Soup Nazi”? Or, the unflattering comparisons related to being a Judas, or a Jim Crow or an Uncle Tom. Then there’s the infamous cliche of drinking Jim Jone’s “Cool-aide”. And who could ever forget Ivan the Terrible or Typhoid Mary. It’s true, our actions ultimatly dictate our epitaph.

In a hundred years from now the name Trump will be remembered synonymously with someone who’s a liar, a cheat, a bully, a racist, a narcissist and an over all unsavory character.  In the future it will be common to substitute “Trump” for expletives or curse words such as, “He’s got his head up his Trump.” “Go Trump yourself”. “You really got Trumped on”.  “That’s a bunch of Trump.” “You can kiss my Trump.” “I gotta take a Trump”. Children will have their mouth’s washed out with soap for calling someone a low down “mother Trumper”. Graffiti artist will tag subways, buildings and walls with “Trump-isms” such as “What you’re seeing and what you’re reading is not what’s happening.” 

Someday there will be Heavy Metal Bands bearing his moniker, for instance “Trump and the Dead Dictators”. Insolent teenagers will wear black tee shirts bearing the face of  a sneering Trump. These bands will make Ozzie and Slip Knot look like Lawrence Welk.. 

He will become one of the most famous anti-heroes and will be known as“Terrible Trump the Orange Menace.” His superpower will afford him the ability to turn lies into the truth. He can turn peace into chaos and tranquility into drama. He’ll have the power to throw lightening bolts of hate and create divisiveness with his loud mouth thunder. He’ll make the Hulk and Godzilla look like Pee wee Herman and Mary Poppins. His kryptonite is truth, humility and compassion. 

As the saying goes, “Careful what you ask for”. Donald got what he wanted——— eternal fame—-but I’m sure not in the manner he had expected. But, if the shoe fits the mouth, then insert it.

 Well, it’s time for me to stop “Trumping” around and get the “Trump” out of here.

Peeping Tom


soundtrack Idaho by Gregory Alan Isakov

And maybe this is all we get
A few years on a blue spinning ball
circling around an ordinary star
We’re god’s orphaned children swinging from monkey bars

In what feels like a not so ordinary life

Take my clothes off in the dark
I wonder where this is all leading
In my sleep, you invade my dreams
memories swinging on worn-out bedsprings

I took a wrong turn last night
and drove past your house with its backdrop of fading sun

Your house, with children toys on the front lawn
I wonder what having a family with you would have been like

I suddenly felt pathetic, like a stalker, a trespasser
Like a sleazy peeping tom, I’m fueled with shame and excitement

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