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Randy Vera Dec 2013
"Here Made of Gone" for  Isabella Stewart Gardner
Lyrics By Randy Vera
Music By: Randy Vera and Anthony J. Resta

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.
Artwork from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston is still missing. Mrs Jack was one of a kind, an American original in every way. Her house, "Fenway Court" is today the Museum which still holds one of the most valuable collections in North America. Titian's "The **** Of Europa" hangs in a room across from the pilfered Dutch room. A Michelangelo is a few steps away in the hall behind it next to Napoleon's battle flag. In the hall below are some of Dante's original manuscripts. Too many magnificent works to list. Botticelli, Matisse, Degas and John Singer Sargent's masterpiece "The Ruckus" are still there. The bad guys took the only seascape attributed to the Dutch master Rembrandt: "The Storm On The Sea Of Galilee" (I saw it at a HS field trip in 1988, almost a year to the day before it went missin) A list of rest of the missing Art is in this fine report from Boston's NPR station:
The FBI questioned me while I was researching "Mrs. Jack" and the heist.  They thought I was a little crazy.  I told them I'm just a poet doing research for a song. I was a teen on March 17 1990, the night of the heist. I have no info beyond this song)

Mrs. Jack built Fenway Court to her specs. The art she hand picked. The glass roof? Ya, her idea. She wanted the forces of life and hope to flow out.
The old Boston Arena is in Fenway Court's  back yard. Any event in Boston was held there at the time. Fenway Park is less than a mile away.  
Mrs. Jack inspiered 4 novels that we can be certain of. The tabloids loved her.
Randy Vera Dec 2013;=youtubegdataplayer

The most aware voice of my generation. If you like David Foster Wallace or Mark Strand then etc..... Take Chuck P's "Fight Club" and send it through the shredder of the tradition since, say Shelley, add some good science and dialectical thinking and you have Timmy (well,  one part of TD's voice, as there is much more) Please check out his culturally & historically significant poems out. Please.
Randy Vera Dec 2013
One of my favorite JG joints. I got a book of hers in the late 90s - the power to dent he template of reason is in how she pulls word around notions. She is gold
Randy Vera Dec 2013
"Dust And Bones" lyrics by Randy Vera 2011 (BMI) 

English Translation for Italian lines in italics 
                       (A Tango in D-minor)
Recorded at Studio Bopnique, Jan 2012, produced by Anthony J. Resta

When I am dust/
Quando io Sono Ossa/ (When I am bones)
Un Sonno Piu Tranquillo (I will sleep most peaceful) 
In the city's catacombs/
For I knew life eternal/
When once she ooooi suresse a me /
(Smiled at me)
Non temo la mia Morte./
(I no longer fear my death)
for that moment, I was king/ 
The dank and cold under stone roads/
shall be my mansion by the sea/
For I knew her kindness/ 
In estate il balcone/
*(on summer's balcony) 
Randy Vera Nov 2013

I saw a Bug Battle,
in the cracks of the street Blood and Struggle
Their plastic screams and cellophane curses were almost like yours and mine.
Until a brave one crawled to my ear,
and he told me of his trial in the street crack theater,
I grinned as if I cared, he smiled like he had the time
He said "in whose camp does your banner fly, and can I have you on my side?"
He loaded a Pistol while I replied:
I said: I'm anti-pro no shout catechist, so keep your pamphlets political activist,
You take your cause for lack of a purpose in life,
pursuit of happiness, "eudemonia"  good spiritedness
you're living proof that ignorance aint bliss
Pray "Libira nos a malo!" and Free Tibet!
But you never prayed for the souls with affixed Bayonets;
so I wave like the man being shot from the cannon;
born on this chunk of warm rock hurling through nothing;
who only on the front of spirit can fight;
Storm the Bastille of desperate life;
and dance in the street every night till the day I die.
The Bug Replied:
Know All, Know all, in the dialog to win,
two grants are a Franklyn one Lincoln's just a fin?
Posit value for this bug since you're so well balanced,
gaining perspective from the outermost valence;
you never killed what you eat and confuse "labor with action,"
  but you think you're to evolved to fight for my faction;
We're currency baby as we live and breed,
BASTILLE for you ATTICA for me!
better get in the frae my anti anti teacher
before it ***** you along with every other fighting creature;
I'm going back to me cell where I breathe a little freer;
but let me give a final though like I'm Jerry Springer:
If happiness is purpose than you can call my purpose love,
to survive I fight the Battle and to me you're the bug.
Thunderstruck, I sat on the curb,
realizing I could be a "social surd;"
then I saw my small confessor get killed in a raid;
I would have stomped out his assassin if I wasn't so afraid;
instead I rose to my feet, and walked straight home,
locked myself in, and wrote out this song,
I think of the bug while I'm dancing in the street,
every time my neighbor throughs a sneaker at me;
I feel his wrestles spirit longing to fight,
while I'm drinking and singing in the middle of the night,
than it hits me:
The bug was right

— The End —