lyrics

I’m From Here album lyrics
© 2025 Rob Siegel

I dreamed I said to Sisyphus

it was early in the morning
still half in the arms of sleep
the sandman was retreating
but the ruts he left were deep
the washing of my consciousness
through melatonin swirls
left this strange and half-remembered
conversation with the world

I dreamed I said to Spartacus
it isn’t you it’s me
I dreamed I said to Tantalus
don’t covet what you see
I dreamed that I asked Jesus
where’d you get the angry mob
I dreamed I said to Sisyphus
at least you’ve got a job

I dreamed I said to Faulkner
you were right about the south
I dreamed that I asked Lincoln
what the hell do we do now
I dreamed that I asked SCOTUS
what’s the going price for law
I dreamed I said to Sisyphus
is this the final straw

I dreamed that I asked Leonard Cohen
why wasn’t it amen
I dreamed I asked Robert Johnson
would you make that deal again
I dreamed that I asked Jerry
where’d you put that box of rain
I dreamed I asked Steve Goodman
did you really ride that train

I dreamed that I told Tesla
you clearly got that wrong
I dreamed I said to Dylan
that’ll never be a song
I dreamed that I told Woody
you’re overrated, son
I dreamed I said to Morrissey
would you try to have some fun

I dreamed I said to Hillary
it was more than just bad luck
I dreamed that I told Kennedy
when you get to Dallas duck
I dreamed that I told Hannibal
you can’t get there from here
I dreamed I said to Sisyphus
is it boredom that you fear

I dreamed I said to Spartacus
it isn’t you it’s me

 
I’m From Here

I’m from Old Bethpage Long Island
land of my parents’ dreams
a Brooklyn boy a Winthrop girl
just off the L.I.E.
the birthday party suburbs
the safe but sterile haunts
except for my dad dying
what more could a family want

it was a place of love and anguish
we needed to get clear
the rooting was rejected
the Kodachrome was smeared
we left my dad in Wellwood
there on cemetery row
headed north for Massachusetts
but I’ll always know

I’m from here
I may not like to admit it
I’ve even been known to omit it
but I’m from here

we settled in in Amherst
as men landed on the moon
the protests at the UMass pond
college students looked so cool
against the backdrop of the Berkshires
my adolescence would unfold
I returned there too for college
so the story that I told

was I’m from here
you can never take away
those happy valley days
I’m from here

so those New York years retreated
a song I could no longer sing
but where you’re born and where you’re from
aren’t the same thing

my wife and I dug in in Newton
when our second child came
the safety of the suburbs
but more trees than Old Bethpage
we’ve been here 30 years now
I’ve got no cause to complain
it’ll never be my home town
but my kids can surely say

that they’re from here
I doubt they’ll ever flaunt it
they can reject if they don’t want it
but they’re from here

50 years after Long Island
my mother joined my dad
her wish was to be buried
in the Wellwood plot they had
when I stood over their gravesites
and tamped down the hallowed earth
I felt the strangest sense of rooting
from my legs into the dirt

I was wrong
I should’ve known
we don’t come from soil
we come from love and bone

I’m from here
from my mom and dad at last at peace
I’m from Kenneth and Bernice
a deeply flawed and restless pearl
from a Brooklyn boy a Winthrop girl
I’m from here

I’m not from Old Bethpage Long Island
I’m from my parents’ dreams

 
Damaged Goods

I’ve got this beat-up little sports car
and I like it quite a lot
it must’ve been a honey
when they drove it off the lot
now the paint looks like a sidewalk
and the seats are badly stained
but I’m not afraid to park it
or to drive it in the rain

damaged goods damaged goods
dents in both the fenders
and a big gouge on the hood
I drive it when I want to and don’t worry if I should
I guess I’ve got a thing for damaged goods

I’ve got this cool old Guild guitar
that ran into bad luck
it was passing between owners
and fell off a postal truck
but I love the fractured sunburst
that rose from the repair
and I’m not afraid to crack it
if I smack it on a chair

damaged goods damaged goods
the most amazing sounds come from
the most distressed old woods
I could buy myself a new one but it wouldn’t be as good
I guess I’ve got a thing for damaged goods

I like the way that I’m attracted
to things others have refused
I like the way their wounded form
creates a function based on use
I like the way they wear their damage
on their sleeve for all to see
our things can have patina
why can’t we?

well I fell and smacked my head against
the cold hard tile floor
the jagged sutured aftermath
joined the other four
now I’ve got this fine collection
of deep scars upon my face
and each one tells a story
of how I reached this place

damaged goods damaged goods
the most amazing words come from
the most distressed old coots
I’ll wear my weathered skin I wouldn’t lose it if I could
aren’t we all just damaged goods

damaged goods damaged goods
the deepest imperfections are the most well understood
whether cars guitars or scars we bear the damage does us good
we are all just damaged goods

 
Onward Through the Fog
(America is bleeding)

well I don’t know how it happened
it still does not compute
but we blew it up
god damn you all to hell
we’ve really done it this time
we’ve gone and screwed the pooch
we’ve kicked the bloody bucket down the well

the faithful have such fervor
they swarm toward the loud noise
they swallow both the big lie and the drug
and what was up was put down
what was right was wrong
and what was left got swept under the rug

and oh America is gasping
as the privileged cry that they’re the underdog
I’m astonished at the straws that we are grasping
I’ll try to stumble onward through the fog

they doubled down on red meat
and threw it to their base
and the dreams of De Tocqueville in the trash
now treason’s patriotic
Diogenes defaced
and we’re well into the big new smash and grab

and oh America is reeling
you’d think we all would know a demagogue
there’s a difference between leading and misleading
but I’ll try to stumble onward through the fog

so what is our best defense
should we dig up Ludwig Beck
should we watch as we get swept into the sea
they just need one more horseman
to complete the bloody set
and we’re sacrificing pawns as if they’re free

with Kristallnacht around the corner
we hang our heads in bars
land of the scared and once home of the free
‘cause it’s already slouched toward Bethlehem
and blotted out the stars
and left the wise men swinging from a tree

perhaps they’ll come a savior
who’ll rise from this red hell
with a backbone to put country over lies
as we wait for lord Vader
to throw the emperor down the well
but integrity’s in wicked short supply

and oh America is crawling
it hurts too much to watch this monologue
horrifying vexing and appalling
maybe I’ll just go out and walk the dog
then try to stumble onward through the fog

 
The Duck Pond

it was my sophomore year in college
I was like most young men obsessed
with the triad young man’s fancy
of women love and sex
I drank those fragrant waters
I swam those vernal pools
and I don’t regret an instant
except one thing with you

Ellen and I took a whirl
on the big merry go round
she was one of a tiny handful
who I felt myself around
she was not the one I married
or the one that got away
but I think about her fondly
and the thing I couldn’t change

oh Ellen
where do the ducks go
where do the ducks go
when winter comes

we both loved The Catcher in the Rye
and how Holden was obsessed
when in Central Park the duck ponds freeze
and where the ducks all went
one night after making love
watching snow outside my room
we agreed that in ten years we’d meet
at the Central Park lagoon

a decade fast and things went past
and my wife and I
welcomed our new baby
‘neath a snowy winter sky
I was aware of the calendar
and that naïve youthful vow
but the duck pond date couldn’t be my fate
no chance no way no how

oh Ellen
where do the ducks go
where do the ducks go
when winter comes

but this is romance novel level stuff
no one really does these things
if she remembered she’d laugh it off
with the common sense age brings
and it simply wasn’t possible
it wasn’t even close
but like Holden asking about the ducks
I could not let it go

it’s now thirty years behind me
yet I allocate a tear
haunted by the thought
that she went to the pond that year
was there a solitary figure
the snow swirling all around
waiting for her old lover
who was nowhere to be found

is not knowing worse than knowing
which would cause me more despair
if she’d gone there without me
or if we both weren’t there
and if she was a no-show
was it a conscious choice like me
or had she just forgotten
or worse
never held the memory

oh Ellen
were the ducks there
were you there
when winter came
 
High and Lonesome Tonight

another night all alone in this big house
my best years behind me like the wind
I guess it’s just me and you in my memory
and maybe a a smoke and some gin
clearly what’s needed is bluegrass
‘cause I wonder where you are tonight
and I’m sure feeling blue
and I’m so missing you
I’m high and I’m lonesome tonight

I’ve got skills like some stoned-out Liam Neeson
and I’ve got pills that get me higher than the sun
Townes Van Zant he sure drank
as did George Jones and Hank
rank amateurs every god damned one
‘cause when it comes to cruising the cosmos
ain’t no one can rise to my heights
give me Alison Kraus and we’ll burn down this house
we’ll get high and lonesome tonight

I went long ago just like Bill Monroe
down that highway of sorrow you see
Rimaud recommended the derangement of the senses
But that French dude got nothin’ on me

I went long ago just like Bill Monroe
down the highway of sorrow and pain
I dig rock and roll but it don’t soothe my soul
Like Doc Watson on that blue railroad train

I love me some Neil and some Joni
there’s a sadness that makes me belong
but this music’s like teargas
they say that it ain’t bluegrass
if she’s alive at the end of the song
Ralph Stanley was in constant sorrow
and Hank was so lonely he could cry
well let ‘em all come round and surround me with their sound
we’ll all get high and lonesome tonight

let me take my final breath
as the record plays oh death…
we’ll get high
and lonesome tonight
 
The Telescope

My father had a telescope, a small-aperture long-focus Newtonian reflector. It was simple but imposing, a long black tube on a big black tripod.

It was near as tall as he was, meaning they both looked giant to me as a kid. I remember him taking me outside on our Long Island street and standing me up on a chair so I could look through the eyepiece.

I don’t remember what it was aimed at. I don’t remember what I saw. I just remember the moment.

Look upward, aging child. Look up at the night sky. Through the mirrors and the aperture, the years are passing by.

After my father passed, the telescope was a fixture in four houses, but it fell into disrepair. Once a witness to night splendor, it became a prop from the past, relegated to a corner. 20 years ago a tenant of my mother’s said he could restore it. He took it apart, but then moved out. Entropy and time did their thing, and the pieces of the telescope got scattered like the innards of the scarecrow after the flying monkeys attacked.

Look upward, aging child. Look up at the night sky. Through the mirrors and the aperture, the years are passing by.

After my mother passed, the thing I wanted most from her house was the telescope. I found the tripod upstairs, and the tube in the basement wrapped in a blanket, but all the glass was missing. We found the primary mirror in a shoebox. Weeks later my sister miraculously unearthed the eyepiece, but its secondary mirror was lost forever.

Like my father, I’m a practical man. I had no interest in “restoring” the telescope. Out of sentimentality, I wanted to make it complete. Out of curiosity, I wanted to try to make it functional.

As I began reassembling the telescope, I found lettering on the base that said SkyScope. It turns out they were the first post-WWII manufacturer of high-quality consumer telescopes. Together with a sky atlas from behind the iron curtain, it became ground zero for amateur astronomy in the United States. My father must’ve bought it when he still lived in Brooklyn with his parents. It cost $25 back in 1952, which was not chump change. This wasn’t inheriting some old chair—this was a piece of passion.

Look upward, aging child. Look up at the night sky. Through the mirrors and the aperture, the years are passing by.

I installed a generic secondary mirror, cleaned the primary, read up on the focusing procedure for a Newtonian scope, ignored it, and simply aimed the scope at a streetlight and adjusted the primary mirror until I could see the image. The first clear night, I took the battered old SkyScope outside, aimed it at the moon, and…bam, craters. There was Tycho and its debris field staring back at me from the south pole. I literally hugged the scope. A few weeks later, I saw Jupiter’s moons through it. Later, Saturn’s rings. It was soooo cool.

I suppose I could restore it, but I like the idea that the tarnished brass might have the oils from my father’s hands in it. Besides, any camera with a telephoto lens will work better, but it isn’t about how well it works. It’s the fact that it works at all. That I can stand where he once stood, see what he once saw, and love what he once loved.

Look upward, aging child. Look up at the night sky. Through the mirrors and the aperture, the years are passing by.

 
I Can’t Wait

I can’t wait
until his name’s no longer spoken
until the powers he’s awoken
all crawl back under their rock

I can’t wait
after the reign of hate and terror
‘til he and his torchbearers
are confined to their cellblock

I can’t wait ‘till he’s gone

I can’t wait
until his memory’s just a dark stain
until his minions cower in shame
from what they believed and did

I can’t wait
until the big repudiation
until the whole GOP nation
claims they were never really his

I can’t wait ‘till he’s gone

I can’t wait until the nightmare
is buried six feet deep
with a stone that reads “We’re sorry,
maybe now we all can sleep”

I can’t wait
until the inmate meets his dark fate
until the angels at the white gates
laugh in his orange face

but I can wait
for one thing after the dark wave
I’ll wait on line to water his grave
and I’ll smile after the rain

I can’t wait ‘till he’s gone
 
‘Til I Blow Away

it starts wet and screaming
it ends dry and dreaming
and the part inbetweening
is what we call life
it’s rarely expected
it’s auto-corrected
it’s the blossom in winter
the rose in the ice

and so I didn’t know
what was waiting for me in the snow
each morning I’d wake up
certain that they
would let time pass through me
‘til I blow away

it wasn’t apparent
‘til I lost my last parent
and so I at sixty
an orphan became
and everything shifted
from what I was gifted
and the veil was lifted
between me and the rain

but oh now I can see
what’s out there waiting for me
now most nights I lie down
hoping that they
will let time pass through me
‘til I blow away

it’s the vote that’s been hacked
it’s the deck that’s been stacked
I might have a third act
but I doubt a fourth
I’ll learn my last lesson
I’ll book my last session
for a gentle procession
finally north

and oh now I can sense
the thing for which we’ve no defense
I’ll find things to do
but all we can do
is let time pass through us
‘til we blow away

and oh now I can feel
the shivering point of the steel
I’ll stay here and fend
as long as I can
and let time pass through me

‘til I blow away
 
We’d Talk About Cars

there’s a guy I met at gigs and shows
I really liked to hear
I’d see him every couple weeks
over the span of several years
he’s a damned fine musician
many folks would say
and while I’d agree completely
I knew him in a different way

we’d talk about cars
all the MGs and the Triumphs
and the stupid things we’d owned
we’d talk about cars
the ones we learned to drive on
and the ones that got T-boned
when we weren’t playing our guitars
we’d talk about cars

he’d drive to gigs in his Porsche
I’d take my BMW
we joked how real musicians
have to drive a Subaru (it’s true!)
I have this dead old British car
I bought six years ago
he’d ask “what’s the latest with the Lotus?”
and I’d shake my head and say “you know…”

we’d talk about cars
the swagger of a Jaguar
the panache of an old Cord
we’d talk about cars
how to balance out our passion
with what you can afford
the appeal of patina and old scars
we’d talk about cars

he once told me a story
I’ll remember ‘till I die
he’d just sold his old sports car
and took it out for one last drive
he wound it to a hundred
‘til the blue lights made him slow
he was cool contrite and truthful
so the cop just let him go
but then he pushed his luck and asked
“any more of you ahead?”
the officer was indignant, said
“I can’t tell you that!”
he was about to drive away
when the policeman took a stroll
walked to my friend, winked and said:
“It’s clear on up to Lowell”

(I do not know anyone else who could’ve gotten away with this)

I finally got the Lotus running
on a beautiful spring day
just then I heard the awful word
that my friend had passed away
on that car’s first drive I thought I cried
“he would’ve loved to hear ‘bout this”
and I’d never get to tell him

we’d talk about cars
the places that they took us
the adventures on the way
we’d talk about cars
and I’ll miss that just as much
as the music that he played
and if he’s up there driving ‘round the stars
I hope he finds someone to talk about cars

(for Rob Ayres)

 
Let It Fail

as I move through my September
in my greying afterglow
and I quietly dismember
the wisdom I should sow
just what should be my epitaph
that final weighty quote
“you know, you can do anything,
but you probably won’t”

let it fail
let the evening sky grow dim
let it fail
there’s beauty in what might have been

it’s a long and uphill battle
so you walk out of the line
you’re so easily discouraged
but you’re saving so much time
don’t think you’re something special
‘cause you’re not the only one
there’s beauty in not doing
what you never could’ve done

let it fail
let it quietly crash and burn
let it fail
it never really was your turn

they’ll lead you straight for slaughter
you precious fatted calf
failure’s not an option
it’s the predetermined path
don’t double down on passion
don’t place that sucker’s bet
success can be so fleeting
but you’ll always have regret

so when you’re hard up against it
and you’re tired of the fight
and surrender to the demons
and admit that they were right
don’t try to roll the stone away
or shove it up the hill
just lay down in the thistles
and lie there very still

and let it fail
get crushed by your own stone
let it fail
as it rolls its way back home
let it fail
let it sink into the sea
let it fail
let it be the last you see of me

 
The Aftermath

so you engineered your exit
drove your segue down the stream
hit the road like Peter Fonda
jumped the fence like Steve McQueen
then you turned to watch the train wreck
as Godzilla hit the shore
now you don’t need to think about it anymore

was there no madness to your method
was there nothing that you missed
you enumerated options
you encapsulated risk
you sought advice from strangers
and your inner old man voice
and you acted when you had no other choice

your small house on the bell curve’s
now a teardown for the bride
your pig went through the python
and it still came out alive
your 401 is shaking
like some fatted golden calf
fearful of the aftermath

so what was it that you lived through
what exactly was the point
did your crucible malfunction
did you burn down the whole joint
did you uncover some conspiracy
that underpinned the dance
or was it just incompetence

that view must have been something
from their room up at the top
where they saw shareholder value
as the blood ran down the block
where they tried to cleave the diamond
with a hammer and a screw
where they did not shareholder value you

is this the shining future
is this the brave new world
they paid with wooden nickels
they put swine before the pearls
then they tuned every TV
to the nightly psychopath
and waited for the aftermath

waited for the money
those amber waves of wealth
America
get over yourself

as the smoke clears in the distance
as the acrid fumes diffuse
the wreckage now resembles
a thing that I might use
in the interstitial spaces
in the marrow of my mind
I wrap myself around the undefined

my eyes must have been bigger
than that stomach that I ate
they say that denial
is an open carry state
a candle for the darkness
a machete for the path
let’s get on with the aftermath

look me up after the big one
we’ll both have a good laugh
about living in the aftermath

 
Daddy

when you were young
the blood in the lungs
and the cough that steadily grew
the symptoms that fit
your neighbor who spit
the tubercular germs from his stoop

the radiation was bad
a discredited fad
the cancer the cure morphed into
my sister and I called you daddy
‘cause that’s what all little kids do

my mother’s worst fears
they gave you three years
and that turned out to be
about right
so that was your slate
gone at age 38
the injustice of fate and of time
the brutal black dawn
the dead prince in song
the wreckage the gods left behind
the family you left called you daddy
‘cause that’s who you were when you died

while processing layers
I found your death papers
the where and when you ceased to be
it’s hard to come face
your last time and place
I wonder what mine will be

it all stopped for you there
but we three who cared
the daughter the son and the wife
took the stake through the soul
paid the still-living toll
and tried to crawl out of the ice
but frozen in time
so sad and sublime
this atrophied word we still have
your children still call you daddy
‘cause you never got
to be dad

 
I Made My Peace With Christmas

I made my peace with Christmas long ago
the carolers and candy canes
that shimmer in the snow
the ornaments and trees and lights
and gingerbread and silent night
I made my peace with Christmas long ago

I know it’s really hard to understand
the view of an outsider
in a mainstream Christian land
but it’s my choice what I embrace
I have the right to push away
it’s not for someone else to make demands

‘cause when you’re Jewish
Christmas ain’t for you
but you get a different holiday
you’re told is just as good
why you get eight days full of fun
eight presents surely must beat one
here have another latke you’re a Jew

some say that it’s all druid
not Christian in the least
just usurped pagan symbols
like the tree and the big feast
but these are not your rituals
the subtle mantra’s been
you can watch them through the door
but don’t go in

it might seem there’s a clear dividing line
separating Santa from the virgin and the child
but idols are like icons
and these are yours not mine
it all just feels so foreign ‘round that shrine

it’s the same way with the tv shows and songs
jingle bells well maybe
but silent night feels wrong
only frosty the snowman
was secular and thus
I think that he’s really one of us

still there’s nothing of the season
in Chanukah’s bright lights
enforced juxtaposition
divorced from winter white
out of step with both the weather
and the culture’s mortal sin
standing at the door
but never going in

so I say merry Christmas
and that’s fine
I’m tired of asserting
that these symbols aren’t mine
like some invasive species
inching way out on a limb
even if the door is shut
it’s coming in

I made my peace with Christmas
long ago