Donald Eugene Smith

"When The Satellites Crash"

A song written by John Lane (copyright 2019)
When the Satellites crash, whatcha gonna do?

When the Satellites crash, will they fall on you?

Well then, pretty baby, we'll have to sing the blues 
Verse 1
No more internet, you can't shop online, no social media, selfies, memes or whine
And you can't use a credit card to pay your bills or dine
Verse 2
Well you can star a hole in the palm of your hand, but your phone won't work, toss it in the sand
And there'll be no more starin' down unless you're tryin' to land


Verse 3

Well you can drive your car, but not too far, you'll have to buy your drinks at a cash-only bar
And the stories you're gonna tell will make you a star.


Verse 4
No more dating sites, you're gonna have to learn some skill, to catch her eye, my brother. From her window sill
And she can't photo shop or crop her looks to kill


Barbara DeMarco-Barrett

John Lane

Nathan Rivera

need to figure out how to attach movie

Kathy Crabbe

*needs attachment for read more

John Lane is on Facebook
His band is called Grass (read bio on website)
Website > 
Instagram > @grass_band
Facebook pages > Murrieta/Grass
Facebook pages > The John Lane Project
All John's original music with Grass and The John Lane Project can be found everywhere music is digitally distributed.
"When the Satellites Crash" is one of 8 original song submissions to the National Songwriters 2020 competition. 
(All the info listed below the song likely exceeds the 200 word limit, use what you see is best)

"Deeply moved and affected by the pandemic and the political climate, I've been feeling the minor chords lately."

EXCERPT from the play,

 by Donald Eugene Smith


In the guise of a parlor game, Lady Wilde acts out the story of “Flatland” by Edwin Abbott Abbott-

Wait!   This silly author has forgot to mention my guests.
Starting clockwise, we have my son, Oscar Wilde.
Then Christina and Dante Rossetti.
It paints a world of two dimensions, with interesting similarities to Britain of the late 1900’s.

 I confess, it is actually a ruse.

I wish to discourage Christina from marrying-

 Thank you, Lady Wilde. If I can now continue-

I am sharing some the story. Parts are re-written from the novel.
I have simplified and added the verses that I am sharing.

Imagine what life would be like if the world had two or one or no dimensions.


I call my world, Flatland. Not because we call it so.
But to make its nature clearer to you.      
Who are privileged to live in space.


Imagine a vast sheet of paper with straight lines, triangles, squares and circles.
The inhabitants can move freely about on the surface. But have not the will or the power to rise above; or to sink below. READ MORE

Mary Lou Reid

*not an AA member

* place holder for story

From my essay “Friday Night Mariachis.”

Decades earlier, I sit between my mother and grandparents at El Tapatio, where waitresses swirl between tables, bright flowers tucked behind their ears. With his fingers laced across his trim middle, my grandpa nods in time to the music playing across the room, a band of mariachi musicians decked out in sequined sombreros and espaliered jackets. At the climax of the sad ranchero, in a surge of apasionada, the singer yelps a high-pitched ay ay ayyy. At this, Grandpa closes his eyes. I pinch a clump of salt from the rim of my mom’s margarita and lick my fingers. When our waitress comes I order the cheeseburger plate, but my mother mocks my choice, wonders aloud the same question she asks when I won’t dunk my chips into the too-spicy salsa: What kind of Mexican are you?

It was a joke, a rhetorical question. But it was a phrase she repeated often, and I was an only child who puzzled over adult conversations and took everything literally. What kind was I? On my mother’s side, a third generation Mexican-American, born into a family rooted in a town east of East L.A.

– From my essay “Friday Night Mariachis.” Read the full piece at


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Do Cows Cry?

How long would an American cow live, if allowed to enjoy its blissful bovine life? Twenty years. A dairy cow has four to six. Producing milk for humans, cows work overtime.
                                    I looked it up

Do cows dream of grass, of endless meadows, of spending days chewing cud? Or do they have nightmares, those early morning milkings, udders pumped raw by indifferent hands, machines. That would make me cry. Do cows cry?
                                    I looked it up

The internet says no, but I swear dogs cry and my cats look sad when they’re sick. Why wouldn’t cows cry? Those big watery resigned eyes. Mother and daughter cows bond for their short life, closer than any humans.

                                    I looked it up

Kelly Shire

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Welcome to the

Dorland Associate Artist Writers Gallery