Stretching surface

Drying time
Spreading thick
Reflecting back
Forgetting four

Gathering shapes

Speaking in echoes across the void,
To the gathering shapes below
A smiling sloth seeks shining light  speaking deliberately slow:
- with these lips, calling out to those who listen. 
-with these toes exploring unknown forces
-With these fingers shaping flame into something new,
Waking once again,
Squinting through  murky fluid
Breathing through the long long stem
holding the seed tightly in teeth
Swarming schools of color
Circling once more
The original words form. 
Solidifying  the diving force
Dripping  cold life
Smiling just because.

Mushrooms grow from the fallen trees

The Rhinos Run free in the sunlight stamping out the shrooms as they find them.
Except for at the eruption Shore where the spicy boys Kandinsky created from the liquid metal meeting the waves.
They left great quarry pits.

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. 

Kiln thoughts

Smashing knuckles against the sharp gritty walls of the tomb as the chisel misses it's mark and slides wide.  The weight of the mallet only stops when the knuckles come to a dragging stop on the shattered rocky surface. 
My muse of misery that is apart of so much of my waking hour thoughts.  She grows stronger as I grow weaker.  I'm a slave to the miracles of beauty that she creates. 
She is mocking,  cold,  and terribly cutting.  There is no choice of anything better.  Addicted to creating at all costs,  regardless of the cost. 
Although related, I believe that the the muse is not you. 
There can be long periods of complete silence from the muse and regardless of how I try to tempt her,  I only find that I know nothing about her.
Maybe it's her cruel unpredictable nature that is so appealing.  The thrill of the unknown is intoxicating

The picnic

Thinking back to Green grass silhouette
Panting puppy punished for defiantly chasing squirrels. 
Waiting in the shadowed woods on mossy picknick tables. 
The stash of empty beer cans is found after retrieving the retriever. 
The owners return shirtless,  happy,  and ready to return to their regular week of poverty and depression. 
You on your computer or with your books sitting next to me and you couldn't be any further away. 

Oil conversations with myself

Speaking for or attempting to explain the language of art I feel is an injustice to it's ability to speak for itself.  While sometimes I use the canvases to speak into,  mostly I feel like it is a dialogue between the two of us.