If only dragonflies

catered soot-soiled lungs,

and with its grilling rib cages,

broiled enough to give way to

singeing orange and white-hot blue flares.

Watch it then exploit all elements-

Basket-catching the creatures slowly meandering

just below the water’s lapping, fluid cap,

Ensnaring predacious critters hidden

amidst the foliage-infested land,

by perfectly calculated velocity,

And consuming its prey now by flame,

ferociously blasting bursts of

agonizing, zesty combustion.

If only dragonflies

catered soot-soiled lungs,

it could then finally

barbeque its mosquito dinner-

cook out the bloody rare

in one steady, sweltering puff.

Fireflies would become a forgotten keepsake

no longer kept in observatory mason jars.

Ah, but FIRE-breathing dragonflies-

Children will need to be

a little more precarious

when attempting to jar

just one.

Why is a man known for this dull canvas of darkness?

As if he were so proud when slapping the acrylic tar on the rugged cloth-

Now puffing smoke from his pipe, toasting with boastful glee,

"Why yes, that certainly was me."

I don't get it.

The fancy fellas around me observe this "masterpiece"

One pointing with his manicured hand at the soft light through the dark tough,

"Down there," he said, "Ah, that's what draws the eye."

Well, I'm surprised they could see at all- their noses are up so high.

What the-...?

The others nod in agreement, "yes, there it is."

There what is?

I found just strokes of dark metal gray against putrid ore stains,

Scraping squiggles where dyslexia meets attention deficit & obsessive compulsi-

Is that a thumb print?

Oh yes, he left his mark all right.

This so called "Black Square"is just as 

            ---POINTLESS---

As a cow learning to read novels.

           Utter absurdity.

Well, joke's on the superior scholars and bluffing connoisseurs-

I bet the man came home drunk one day,

Had an important deadline to meet,

          started...          (phew) almost TOO late

Ran out of every color in every medium-

Searched high, low, found nothing

But aha! One tub of black paint...

He probably laughs with his friends, his family, all thinking back

Engaging with a, "Hey, remember that time?

What a hoot. What a day,

What that asphalt-hued square went on display."

All I see when I close my eyes

are confused letters

scrambling together in a race to see which group can

coagulate the most intellectual and complex run-on sentence

as fast as possible.

Disorganized, dyslexic, disillusioned,

what is their deal?

Why can't these thoughts get their crap together?

It's most certainly not my fault!

I come up with the ideas,

I'm the brains of this operation,

and they had ONE job, one stinkin' job-

putting my ideas in

complete, cohesive, and slightly artistic

sentences.

Can they do that? Nope.

I ought to fire them; clearly I can do a better job.

Must the brain do everything?

The innocent congregation sits

with a child's anticipation.

The sultry brass notes encapture

our mesmerized demeanor

creating a dialogue without

a single word spoken.

Only through lyrical ink.