How He Painted His Portrait

He began by standing

grandly like a cavalier –

a wily stylish royalist –

bound to his king by reflex –

all ample elegant virility,

tastefully testosteroned:

his thrill was real. He warily

leaned back – quick hands

turned cowboy: reached

for guns – tense spine

relaxed into impasto, half-

mixed hues, whites, blues

and greens – scarlet,

black and turquoise mark

the outer limits of the paint:

there’d be a void

of unalloyed un-painted

canvas beyond that:

what color could one call

unpainted canvas?

Ridiculous and inexplicable:

no point beyond existing.

Someone said to think our

species had more purpose

than to be organic landfill

was presumption. But

presumption will insist. His

cowboy/cavalier’s still here.

Albeit with those funny

squiggles out each ear.

.