Art hangs on its walls, so
An assumption of superiority
Upon simple entry-taken.

A pretend facade, bas relief
Precisely to protect
Against the label-simple.

Provencial town
Common exposure lacking
Self congratulated experts-abundant.

Tonight unnoteworthy
In any regard
My trio awkward in its composition-waits.

Females voices from behind
Desperate to quiet the silence
Spew forth unattended thoughts-perceptions

The best concert ever, for sure, John Mayer
This unaware aware subject of appraisal
Like most artists when judged-something.

Nosebleed seats but his voice, like butter
I hear he’s a terrible boyfriend, though
And not a good person, another adds-tough.

This crowd, and most others left to wait
Allows full reign to provide beyond
More than a take it or leave it-strange.

A voice like butter
She makes no note of his blues
Just his lack of skill in-love.

The night’s speakers begin
One after another, then eight more
Only one leaves me to ponder-anything.

The scheduled prose proved unmemorable
Escape quickly to avoid
Facing her, or anyone else-flee.

From my own desire to point
This fool’s game of opinions
Precisely mingled-fear.

The artist who resides in each
When left to languish
More easily destroys-unjustified.

And dripping of butter and the blues
Counts as nothing
When they hang out to dry another-defenseless.