Wednesday, January 16, 2008


Alone: the clay and I. Aching for
solace, for companionship, I take the
muddy matter in my palms and, playful,
create. But soon, like all art and like all

Artists, the formless mass takes form, breathing
life through lifeless lungs, animating nostrils;
I can only watch--dumbstruck, mute. It is
a sadness far older than the earth that

All created must transcend the flawlessness
of imagination, dying in the
very instant of its birth. Through just such
deceit we are conned to try once more: And

while my mind will sculpt the perfect woman
My hands shall craft the perfect whore.