The people who look at art—
and let out satisfied moans
as though the experience
has left them speechless.
They take in art of all kinds—
without any new reaction,

at the ballet.
at the paintings.
at the sculptures.
at the symphony.

These people never with anything new to say;
They are the patrons of art— never the makers.
They take as much of it in as they can— though—
any opportunity they have;
But still squeaking out—

at the arabesque.
at the red on yellow.
at the marble ass.
at the violin solo.

These people who come and see us—
sometimes pay money, others not.
They are nothing but garlic farters,
groaning out their own ambivalence
toward something they’ve consumed—
but have no words to describe—
it does to them on the inside—
for a bright juicy exclamation,
passing wind past their lips,
And no matter what comes out—
how wretched the stink,
they are always chewing on more of it—
searching for something new to say.

“OHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, YEAH.
I LIKE THIS ONE THE BEST,” they’ll say—
farting into their fingers
and then
sniffing them like mad.
Nothing but garlic farts—
every single one of them.
And the sad thing is—
you’ve probably passed one yourself
just reading this poem.
But it smelt pretty good,
didn’t it?

written on 12/28/2010 by: Matt Kane