I said marry me,
in sly tones and a sense of decency,
she said I was drunk and needed a nights rest,
so I said she out of all my friends was best,
eating pancakes she had to go,
I'll sit here and watch the snow,
I hate this show,
my life and every song,
so I texted her and asked, "why does it feel so wrong?"
no one has an answer because they feel it too,
I guess I'll see it,
when the snow falls anew.

I am electric.
All the time I feel it
Sparking just under my skin.
Sometimes it settles like static,
And sometimes it rages like lightning.
But I am always too small for it.
It doesn't live in me
It consumes me
It becomes me.
I feel, therefore I am,
And it is great and terrible.
God was a child,
With a fork in an electrical socket
And I became.
Sometimes someone will try to know it all
Try to be the one who holds all of it
And wonders about nothing.
I have learned that people who try to define me
Burn.
I have learned that being near me
Pulls emotion from them
Magnetically
And that in my purest form
I am neither good nor bad
But I am most certainly
Dangerous.
Electricity doesn't discriminate
It flows.
It's easy to be too much
When there's no end to you.
Slowly, I learned to step back,
To pull away.
There is not a little shame in knowing you can fry someone
By accident.
But no matter what,
I will make your hair stand up.
I don't mangle people,
But I at least leave them with a distinct feeling of strangeness,
Like having the tree right across the yard from you get struck by lightning
And feeling the hum.
It is a fascinating, unsettling, addictive feeling,
And I've seen people lust for it
And I've seen them flee from it
Headlong.
I've held back my fingertips
Unwilling to make them stay by shock treatment.
I have met people who were
Walking dead
And I have shoved them backward
With both hands
And heard a heartbeat restart.
I have met people who reached for me
Like a child for the hot element on a stovetop
And found exactly the same surprise and pain.
I have known people who
Stand close enough to singe their hair
And hold their palms up to thaw something inside them
That has gone cold as ice.
And I have known people whose fingertips
Drew all the lightning to them
And left glorious, hot scars on my skin
Handprints that never cool.
I have short circuited
Looking into eyes that pulled every molecule of me
Charged
Into my beating heart and made me a dying star
Folding in on myself.
I come with a warning label
Because I shout hazard signs
To anyone who will listen.
I try to be gentle
But being high voltage is as much a high
As it is a burden.
I can **** or resurrect, depending only on the direction of the wind that day.
I can light you up
Or I can ******* you
And I don't ever know which it will be.
I am so alive that I can't hold it in,
And I am so chaotic that it's like a disease.
I am electric.

"Here Made of Gone" for  Isabella Stewart Gardner
Lyrics By Randy Vera
Music By: Randy Vera and Anthony J. Resta  
http://bopnique.com/anthony-j-resta-and-randall-vera-finalists-john-lennon

LYRICS :
Vermeer, Rembrandt, Manet, Degas, from my three thousand year old Chinese KU, I toast you. 

Mrs. Jack, I am your Bronze Eagle. I cut the painting at the frame – thieves by any other name.

Mrs. Jack with handcuffs and *****, I overcame your walls. Your collection’s complete.
Titian's Europa still hangs. The mirror to my:

Piece de la resistance. I’m your creme de la creme. I’m the John with the Procures on the wall in Vermeer’s concert.
Here, made of gone. 

Mrs Jack, I’m your new William James. Through your kindness, you support me, in Dutch Room empty frames.
Like John Singer Sargent, I toil between your walls. I am Vermeer’s "corn flower blue," indescribable. 
The metaphysical: Known unknown!

St Patrick’s Day 1990, I’m in Boston in the Fenway. For my penance, I’ll go to Saint John’s, drop to my knees, and like you, scrub the tiles clean.

Titian's Europa still hangs, the mirror to my: piece de La resistance. I’m your creme de la creme. I’m the John with the Procures on the wall in Vermeer’s concert. Here made of gone. 

Where language fails that where art triumphs. The interloper between camps of reason and dreams. I’m an event not cognition. Like any event stored in canvas, paper, pen ,or ink.

Oh Mrs Jack I so love your "Head Band." I’m also a Redsox fan. I loved the Champagne and donuts, and thank you for the paintings.