Art

Art, when mated with profitability,
Begets something else, something quasi-industrial.
Witness the process of mellowfication:
Defiance bludgeoned into compliance,
Reaction sedated, insolence sweetened,
Thorns of disputation disavowed.
At the end of the tampering, what do we have?
Abstract portraits that mutate minutely,
A stroke or two different from room to room
In inns where they hang like strangled intruders;
Twiddly music that lobby pianists
Noodle from musty-mood repertoires;
Mass-market titles, flogged then forgotten
On discount tables at Books-a-Billion;
Cobbled-together steel beam structures--
Girders and stanchions and metal plates--
Fused into junkpile glommerations
And plopped into office parks, squares, and malls.
Art for art's sake? Only if such "art"
Can inspire creations with maximum heart.