Pots

Talking yourself into irrelevance is not a profound critique on being. it's a cheap trick of the rational mind.
Before falling asleep and entering dreaming, the question of whether this is real is asked.
Moving from box to box, looking through windows while eating in a box, and then  bathing in a box before sleeping in your box. 

The wood ash drippings and the orange flushing of the flames marks on the clay is real. 
Where is this market where the real pots are for sale?
The toad that comes out of its hole at night to hunt the stunned bugs crashing into the light. 
The raven watching from the bridge the water streaming below and commuters streaming above. 

Splitting wood

Firing through the night
exhausting fight with bone cold
Splitting slivers from the whole
Catching a vein and running wide
a ladder Connecting now to later
Splitting time down the middle
Missing rungs from the bottom
Finding another way. 

A window in a window

We don't see clearly

We grow older and make monuments to defy time.
The things done  to hide and change our appearance and the labels attached to a fleeting identity.
When the ones we love are gone and we leave unfamiliar metal likenesses for a possible passers-by searching for the resting place to their genetic origins, what is really there?
We don't want to be seen how we are.  Even in death we want to be better.  Striving for something to make a mark on the world before we leave.

Bodies

Before our bodies were shamed by clothes, 
before our minds were dulled by language
We sat laughing in bubble baths

Waiting

The silence of waiting,  waiting
for the clay to dry out a little more
Waiting for messages and images to work their way out of wrinkles around our eyes and lengthen our noses
As we lay awake lying to ourselves about the stories that brought us to this moment
The one that we give credit to everyone else for creating for us. 
Broken eyes and teeth cut our fingers deep. 
Blank stares reflecting when eyes were more than just seeing, but actually being used for a purpose. 
Even a piss pot of exquisite terribleness is still more fulfilled than the ghosts of vessels broken looking out blankly as they stick out as empty decorative tradition that no one cares for. 
The many different faces throughout my life that move across the clay surface until they are eventually frozen solid in dry clay. 

Fire flies

I feel like all day like I'm catching creative fire flies.  At the end of day I get to relax,  stop chasing them,  and watch all the beautiful ideas I'll never have time to bring to life flash in front of my eyes until I fall asleep.  Lol..  As I write this :-D

The kiln of waiting

The kiln of waiting. 
Without love,  wandering around the endless chores of dusty lungs and braking bones and ground down skin,  and burning flesh.
The purgatory time of waiting and thinking of lost love. 
There is comfort in repeating what has been done a million times by finger ghosts of my ancestors. 
Invited in by the succubus weed to flirt with you down memory lane.  Forgotten beauties that sworn not to be forgotten: the repetitious line
And I dive down into the sticky thick mire of clay and memories,  stuck.... 

And he remembers me from a far with a dramatic "hey,  Sam! How's it going?" like I were being greeted upon my arrival into heaven for the first time.  I see my bowl... " you got old" 
Age and death taking their tax each year until we arrive here.  Where we started.  10 years later in the exact same position,  doing the exact same thing.  Something I swore I would never do. 
This repeating vortex of repeating events that steals a little off of your soul with every pass. 
One moment at a time.  One step in front of each other. 
Driving the same direction,  in the same way we did the same way 10 years ago.  Tired and dirty and ready to explode into something great. 
The tax this year has been great.  There is now less of the substance remaining to explode. 
As I remember the past pleasantness and anxiousness ,  I breathe in deep the thickness of stasis slumbering
There are certain interactions that are inevitable.  And while this memory was a moment of heaven,  the moment of hell will come.  Or maybe it's already been paid. 
The ghost of the cup climbed onto my wrist as I brought my memories into the light.  I flung it away as reflexive fear flung the memory.  Smashing it's essence into shards.  The 8 legged homeless nomad went on its way to another home. 

And every story has always led to,  started from,  or ended with you .  Our beginning and ending will always be my life story.  From the moment when I first saw you,  to the last moment that I will ever see you.  This is my story.  I chose this story.