Poem 20151110

this is the real thing, this life
an absence of the not thing
a scarcity of the not life

your skin burns away
in the heat

your skin dries up
in the cold

we are mummies and ashes and ice

let it all crack and crackle
let it split us open
hollow us out before
we step into the dry heat

–at least it’s a dry heat,
they say, as if that makes it
a better heat–

we will be put back together
maybe kinstuki
glittering and showing our flaws
but whole

Poem 20150901

not so picky about the details
or where the clay flies
the artist
pulls with the fine metal loop
tears out a huge
iris-shaped blob of soft clay
from the eye creating
the illusion of depth
and drives the tapered tip
of a paintbrush in
to make the pupil

it’s like those busts
at the haunted mansion
that seem to follow you
concave depressions
made to look like stone
but with the afterimage
of life
as they track you

these sculpted eyes too
follow you as you walk around it
even though they gaze into a future
of fire in the kiln
and uncertain finishes