Abstract Painting of Turbulence

With weak wings she flies on
Lifted by the raging streams
Currents holding her empty bones
Without marrow
Still her wings reach wide
Searching a prevailing breath
Of sweet
Of fresh

A time was with wings she glided
Circled, soared, sought
Left no gem unturned,
No exposure camouflaged.
Still, her wings flew her higher
A latter-day Daedalus:
She is her own child
and hurls herself into the gales.

Hubris or Confidence?
Death or Great Explorer?
It’s lonely at the top they say

It’s lonely at the bottom too.

With sickly wings she remains aloft
Defying gravity with upheaval
Broken feathers burn on the desert sea
Dust Devil, Sandstorm, Monsoon, Haboob
Smash! The sudden crosswind hits
Crack! Hollow bones are bashed about

Keep her flying!
Please, please help her soar.

A time is passing. She worries she’ll be left
Weeping and plucking out the Hubris and Gluttony
For acts she never actually did
Cracked, Hacked, Carved, Burned
A latter-day Icarus
She is her own child
And lets herself fly
And wants to let go.

Hubris or Passion?
Sin Eater or Uncommon Saint?
It’s death at the bottom, they say

Where broken wings
don’t mean a thing.


The Lie of The Gods

With fire and hell, brimstone breathing sulfur fumes burning eyes she cries out, she cries out, she proclaims as some great cruel force not named love she says:

Artist Ettore DeGrazia's Way of the Cross depicting Jesus bearing the cross

Ettore DeGrazia’s “Way of the Cross”

Thus she spake. Indeed she did. So we go to hell in a handbasket, to hell, to hell without a handle on the basket.

Thus he spake. To hell with you! To hell, to hell, with sinners oh ye mortals mine. I gave you life you little girl I can take it away just fine, and in my time, MY time.

I AM GOD (there are no multitudes).

So they ask, the children, eyes bigger than anime characters, more hollow than Ettore DeGrazia faces of Jesus of Children of Earth: All haunted masks watching the dead dance across the panoramic vista of our lives.

I AM NOT GOD the child realizes, faces the father the mother the ancestral line. She cuts, he bleeds. He starts a fire, she is the burnt child.

I AM NOT GOD the child knows, for god would save god would save

god would SURELY save.

There is a list we call commandments
LOVE AND HONOR god, father, mother
But there is no corollary, no analog no dialog no GOD
if LOVE AND HONOR of the child
is not equal to and perhaps closer

Why continue the cut, the bleed, the fire, the burn?

Gods lie. Honor thy CHILDREN
Honor Honor LOVE Protect ALWAYS
The blessing that you were given
where lies, and gods
do NOT cut do NOT bleed
do NOT catch fire

do not burn.


Used To Be Daughter

Tell her I am dead
So she need not suffer
Stay awake at night
color drawing of Mexican Folk Art
Reading the grief
I can’t help but write

I used to be her daughter
But sickness took its toll
Add time and age
and we all, we all,
we falter

I used to be like her.
There used to be laughter.

Tell her I am dead now.

She no longer need suffer.