Reveals a golden-colored mental attestation

Of the eager desire

To participate in those aspects of our lives

Which are wasting away;

Yet fasten to our clothing

Which is worn on a daily basis;

Detaching from the artist’s workshop

In a gaseous mass

Of poverty

And unused civil rights

And an appetite for liberal training

In progressive decline;

Sold to the highest bidder

And torn asunder

Into it’s celestial properties;

Surrounded by the familiar merchandise

Of the audacious audience

Capable of being heard

Over their own performances

That mimic seabirds

Native to the arctic regions,

And features the result of a studied perusal

Of books of maps

To the four chambers

Of the heart

Embedded in our consciousness

Being so rudely teased.

A political success

To be viewed from a wall

In a museum.

What makes it art?

…The frame?

What does this portion

Of the work mean?

…Heck if I know.

It is to be consumed

With white wine, or red,

And a fine rare cheese;

At the very least

With half

Of a cold home-brewed beer

(the top half-

The bottom makes one barf)

And maybe warm soft pretzels.

My digression makes the point-

What we have here is art

To be viewed

With wandering minds.

wbiro

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