Every Man Has His Limits

Every man has his Kingdom,
his River Canyon,
his Deer Valley,
his Temporal Reign.

Icons of the canonized,
painted, blessed and hung.

God damn us that mock the limits.
God bless us that mock the limitless.

Czar of the Tannery

Here. And the flags blow every which way.
Smoked buckskin burns the nose and feet.
Scrape, heat, Oak and Mangrove.

Tannin, dye, dark honey, die.

The Warring Forks of Shame

A love for the outcast
laced in the least of.

No need for wit or wire
just a shared glass of horchata.

His ease cures the shame
heals the landlocked.

The Gospel of Royale

Birthed and painted blue
talk about setting the tone for life.
Without favor, without feather.

Redeemed through sign painting
blessed at this hands.
Illed in the soul, sick in the mind.

Not just any archangel
Not what we expected
He shines through the lowly.

I think I am Rimbaud

I can give a pithy and smallish answer,
and I will.

I have a color palette like no other,
vast enough to blurry a Frenchman's mind.

The taciturn in me writes itself,
your effusiveness ills me.