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.
Common exposure lacking
Self congratulated experts-abundant.
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
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.