sitting here (my book of memories)

it was thirty years ago
sheesh I feel so old
I was four miles from Woodstock
and my feet got cold

all my thirteen years
I dreamed of getting high
but somehow my spirit
was not ready to fly

...so I sang myself to sleep again...
...so no one heard but me...
...and I put another dream away...
...in my book of memories...

just a few years later
if the truth be told
I was so lost in true love
that my heart was sold

and I heard his voice
if you know what I mean
and I knew my heart
would always be... seventeen

...and I sang myself to sleep again...
...still no one heard but me...
...and another dream slipped on the shelf...
...in my book of memories...

there came dark years
when I tried to die
there came bright years
good old college try
there came lost years
when love passed me by
there came light years
when I learned to fly

still I never learned to say...
still I never learned mean...
still I never learned to do...
good bye


it was eighteen years ago
I was deep in denial
I heard he was dead.
life was put on trial

then I heard his voice again
and somehow I knew
that I had to live
and I wanted to

and I sang myself awake - alive
but still no one heard but me
another dream that still survives
in my book of memories

see I've sang his songs for myself
like I hear you do for others
and it may be just a dream for me
but I still feel like we're brothers

there was always something that stopped me
from stepping out on the stage
maybe fear, maybe pride, maybe life denied
I just watched the turning page

and I always told myself
I was waiting to share
waiting... for... the one
now sitting here alone
it iss becoming clear
I have not yet begun

for I've only dreamt while I was asleep
singing softly to myself
living in a book of memories
I've created by myself

and I wonder now, if it is too late
sitting here all by myself
is there any worth in the words I wrote
sitting here... up on my shelf


it was just tonight
I read about your show
wishing I was there
but I didn't go

I live far away
feeling old and tired
but reading your words
I felt... inspired...


...so I sing myself to sleep again...
...does anyone hear me?...
...another dream begins and ends...
...in my book of memories...


and now I sing myself to sleep again
it's still comforting for me
another dream of finding friends
to share
my book of memories

pretentious obscurantism

it may be that i lack an audience because i enjoy irreverence (and word play leading to repetitive redundancy and parenthetic distraction) so much my appearance of persona may present as pretentious obscurantism... or prehensile epicurism, no doubt... perhaps i am just misunderstood... could be that i am simply a lousy writer with no sex appeal (or whatever we might call a writer's appeal) in spite of my brilliant tweets... it's only wordzzz (and word are all i have, after all... but truth is (can you handle the truth?) that i do wander into wonder a lot and can easily be distracted by almost anything, yes, even a squirrel... and infinite variations... and then there are those profoundly meaningless questions that come to mind like why are brits afraid to smile... of course meaninglessness, like pretentious obscurantism, is in the mind of the beholder... everything is always a matter of perspective and opinion, after all... except what we know for sure, that is... but don't mind me, i am still looking for empirical evidence of my own existence... narf :)