Now This Is Awkward

You hear the music or you don't. They can teach you to clap on 2 and 4 but they can't teach you to feel the beat. The ones that stick with you have more to do with your heart than your ears. Socially awkward?

Open heart.

Isn't life something? I just don't feel right trying hard to try hard. It's always on my sleeve and my coat's on the floor.

 

Well, I Never

From Pythagoras to Little Richard, it's a long, winding pathway. Those crooks killed the music business, they didn't kill music.

Some of my most precious memories come from a quarter mile asphalt track and the smell of methanol, brake dust, cigar smoke and roasted peanuts. Go to hell, NASCAR.

Don't get me started on the military industrial complex.

New Shadows

Do you suppose that maybe all the good books have been written? All the great songs, too? I suppose that Chuck Berry and Dostoevsky left us in good shape so that maybe it doesn't even matter. Me? I replay memories of love and lust and watch marathons of Green Acres re-runs whenever they play.

You think you're special, don't you? Everybody does. Just one more way that we're all alike. It has always amused me that the term, common, is such an insult. It's all the same stardust and recirculated water. We're all common.

Except for Hannibal Lecter, Leona Helmsley, Charles Manson and Donald J. Trump.

The rest of us are common.

Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.

Camels and Needle Eyes

Never mind Waldo, try to find an empathy gene in D.C. Now it looks like those white guys with the Bud Light in their hands may have finally crossed some line. Oh, we'll eat cake, alright boys. After we've come for your lunch.

Sometimes it takes an earthquake to awaken the village.

Aggression, unfortunately, is dominant like curly hair and brown eyes. Flat feet. Selfishness.

Golden eras of peace and creativity have frequently followed periods of prolonged war. Maybe he did have a good idea. Let's drain that swamp.

Real Men Write Poetry

Nazis and ghosts and ex-wives are showing up in my dreams. During daylight hours I seem to have hit a smooth patch. It's starting to seem that maybe I'll finish the race without much drama.

REM time? That's a different story. Night after night it has become quite the show around here. My rock'n'roll soundtrack is full of feedback. Where does this stuff come from? I don't have the imagination.

Finally Tuned In, Finely Tuned In

All my life I've wanted a sign that there is stuff out there. You know, things that can't be explained. Of course I've been exposed to experiences that I can't interpret with my own knowledge. We all have.

If you want it too badly, however, you'll trick yourself into seeing it everywhere. Lately situations have presented themselves and I can't explain them. None of it convinces me of anything, really. It does remind me of man's arrogance, though, and I appreciate that.

Oh, if kindness had the appeal of power!

What's Become Of The Tootsie Roll?

The more things change the more I remain the same. Who's gonna tune this thing when I''m gone? I was solar powered before it was fashionable except, of course, when I ran on alcohol.

Seems all of the rocks are little ones now, leaving me and the other inmates with nothing much to do. Oh, I remember what Ireland smells like and I've given thought to moving to a kinder climate.

These are days that remind me of everything that came before me. Today would have been my mother's ninety fourth birthday. Here's to Maxine and all of the soft hearts in the jungle. Here's to love. Here's to peace.