a cluttered studio

full of only art

how does so many ideas exist?


we sit down at a worn wooden table

pulling out some moist red clay

extending our arms

with the joint

the elbow

pressing our palms into the wet surfaces

tearing off what we don’t want

then pounding down the bumps

smoothing out the creases,

bending and overlaying

assembling all the pieces


our minds at work

like a music directors baton

swinging his wrist

from chord to chord

hoping his ensemble

delivers only what he wants to listen


but as I judge my completed pot

my muscles

my brain

choke, as if a rope pulled them taut

struggling to think if days beyond mine

had ever witnessed a formation

somewhat similar

or defined

if god had ever had this sorta trouble

making us

without duplicating

how easy it could have been

to use a stamp


a mold

a photocopieer

that's reused over

and over again

a challenge


that must have been

to make one different

one unique creation.



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