"ceramics" poems
There's something deeply satisfying
In decimating a piece of runaway tissue
With a healthy jet of ****
I stand towering above it
As it clings stealthily to the ceramics
And
cackle
as
I
reduce
it
to
mush.
It bleeds yellow.
I feel no remorse.
Perhaps that's why
If the world were ruled by women
There'd be less war.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 7:16 PM UTC
I have been cheated on. He shares me with her. She is a pretty little girl. She has pretty little outfits of purple and pink and green and she always smells clean. He is gentle to her, with his touch and his lips. He smiles when she’s sweet and he laughs when she’s rough. If I hurt him, he lets me go; if she hurts him, he blames himself. She’s very good at breaking the ice when he wants a new friend and in a matter of time he is sharing her with them but he would never share me. He buys her lavish gifts of stained glass and painted ceramics. He spends all his money on her and his pocket is empty for me. I watch my diet while he shares all the sweets in the world with her. (It must be a passionate way to make love.) He tries to hide her from me, but I can smell her perfume in his hair and I can smell her scented gloss on his lips, and I know when his eyes are twinkling from something more than me. When it is the three of us, he always picks her first and he’ll pick her again and again until she’s all worn out. Some people may think she’s no good, she’s a poison, he should break it off, but others congratulate him for scoring such a beauty. That smile she brings to his face and everyone else’s who breathes her in. I have always been second but he is my first. I do not share him with her, though I think I should. If I want to fit in, if I want to be happy, if I want him to love me more. She’ll never break his heart.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
what my forays into online dating offered me that wasn’t s*x; european coffee beans, a film camera from the 70s, a workshop on ceramics, chicken parmagiana, bottles of blueberry lemonade, thai food that isn’t spicy, help with calculus homework, notes on gen chem, all the Star Wars movies, a book about magic: the gathering, a ride to an nba game, museum visits, nature walks, impulsive road trips, stories about their exes, silly anecdotes, photos of their pets, quality memes, awkward hugs that felt good.
such small intimacies, never blossoming into something bigger yet still imbued with meaning..
filled with what-ifs, if-onlys, and almosts.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 10:32 PM UTC
I was a tender object living in your house.
The things of these were bigger than my vision and we were only a moment.
I asked for everything you never said,
But your eyes spoke what the monsters upstairs didn't have courage too..
As big and frightening as they might seem,
nothing scared you more than releasing the dark smoke in clear air,
But my lipstick smeared to the apples of my cheeks and I closed my eyes.
I created a home in your mind and it angled me to disbelief and I couldn't breathe.
I gasped air from the grips of the trees and I grew roots on my feet,
I stood whole for myself and dressed in self pity.
The clouds were closing in and my caged heart couldn't fly freely,
Yet the wind rolling against my thighs created comfort for the blind,
Yet,
My vision was not impaired;
Only merely to what you have showed me,
And I dangerously lived on sidewalks finding flowers to tape up my soul,
So
I became potted to the ceramics of solis and dreamed by luna,
But mountains weren't moved and neither did I.
I was tender,
(pause)
And
(pause)
I made home in your mind,
You left me homeless
And then I became blind
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
I hate to be the bearer of bad news baby
but I was broken a long time ago.
I had hoped
when I showed you that video
on kintsugi, the Japanese art
of repairing broken pottery
with lacquer and powered gold
that you would've seen our history
was not meant to be hidden,
that our imperfections,
the cracks in our ceramics
were meant to be illuminated
with gold
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
the things we do - indirectly.
i’m drawn to this sort of thing,
torture. but,
i pull myself clear of it.
when she
shakes my hand, her body is elsewhere,
unbothered.
her vessel formed in ceramics and reinforced
tightly
every wish granted, “hey!” i’d say.
it isn’t fair! is it?
i understand these sorts of things
the way i tortured my thoughts into patterns
and my body is elsewhere,
unharmed, because
i pulled myself clear of it. such am i
“above it”: so
it turns out i’m envious
in effigy, “don’t worry,” i’d say.
it’s not real, because
i’m not real
Sep 15, 2010
Sep 15, 2010 at 5:37 PM UTC
I'm cracking up
Like rotten eggs
Like seven years
Of ****** luck
Like old mosaics
Losing tiles
Spiderwebs
Across my windshield
Sending thoughts
Into the ether
Each one taking
Part of me
I'm cracking up
Like cheap ceramics
Broken, scrapped,
And then replaced.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
The black, iron God arm punched
placid-blanched clouds, and dangled
cat cable down to lemon-vested men
with chalkboard faces.
*Basic algebra, today's date, daily
syllabi, God-fearing anecdotes,
and the evils of homosexuality.*
Fornicating with other dudes
is like moving Jesus' rock
with your condom'd *****
Let sleeping dieties die.
We find them buried deep beneath
**** ceramics by T.V. criminals,
rapists, murderers, buzzers, free-
lovers, angelheaded sweethearts.
They have nearly four dollar souls,
barely enough for a Wilpo dinner
at Hepburn Diner. #2 breakfast
with one cup of Columbian cartel
coffee with a pinch of whole milk
to take the edge off, so he won't
be gripping the booth vinyl when
a "freedom" flash cop car passes.
Police cruisers are just bigger bicycles
that we're afraid of, sporting cereal
box baseball cards in the spokes.
Cops were the kids that needed help
their first time fresh off training
wheels. Training academy training
them for low-speed cat chases through
flower beds.
Sweet daffodil, you didn't have to die
like this. You could've drank straight
from the pitcher at a stranger's dinner
party potluck, seen the guts of a New
York highrise, shared the coke left
beneath a woman's botched nose job.
You could have been more than this.
You could have been more.
You could have been.
You could have.
You could.
You.
You, daffodil, stamen-down
in Miracle Gro and dog ****
could have been more.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
I mold like clay
in your rough calloused hands
and you shape me
with drunk eyes and fingertips
that **** my sensitive skin
like knives
The snow plants kisses
to the cloudy glass windows
that confine us together
and I tremble with the fear
of being carved
into something I never planned
or wanted to be
My stomach shrinks
and my spine curves
from the harsh conditions
of your malicious mind
that pushes me further
and further
into depths of myself
I never knew
existed
I am hazy over the idea
that once I was strong
and maybe even the kind of beautiful
that blooms flowers
and jumpstarts heartbeats
and makes the world
close its rueful eyes
even just for a little while
You are an artist
with a clear goal and path
and I hope to god
you let me dry out
for I am not
shiny and mesmerizing
like the ceramics that
populate your dusty shelves
I’ve been molded and shaped
and framed and built
by those coarse and icy hands
so that I am no longer what I used to be
but rather a blurry and ugly version
that makes my head
whirl like the blizzard outside of my
window
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
I miss the feeling of clay under my hands
A spinning wheel, my foot on the pedal.
The rough silver plate always sands
Down the skin on my hand but I don't mind
I can build vessels out of the earth
Pulling cups and bowls up from the ground
In this instant, my hands are worth
A thousand vases glazed in gold
I dip them in thick buckets of color
And place the ceramic uncertainties in the furnace
We both come alive in fire
And emerge even stronger than before
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
well, that was hoped for, otherwise water would have no
universal quality, that ascribes it to provide for, every single species
of animal; but, mostly man.
bugt how does water in ice-cube form, travel outside of its
"container": either a cermaic cup, or a glass,
to form a water-ring beneath the container?
water in, ice-cube form?
i'm pretty sure that water without ice-cubes,
settled in form at room temp. wouldn't create a water-ring
beneath the container...
i have only one answer...
water in ice-cube form behaves like liquid nitrogen...
liquid nitrogen forms a cloud while it evaporates...
water can have the properties of liquid nitrogen,
in ice-cube form, it will evaporate, like liquid nitrogen
out of its container, whether ceramic, or glass,
and form a water ring, beneath the container...
obviously water doesn't behave liken liquid nitrogen
in the all familiar spectacularness of extremes...
water is more subtle when compared to liquid
nitrogen... you can't see water evaporating...
like you might see liquid nitrogen do so...
but how else would water, contained in a cup of either glass
or ceramics... create a water circle at the base,
if it wasn't in liquid nitrogen imitation guise,
that was less spectacular and, "invisible" to the naked eye?
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 1:20 PM UTC
Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.
Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.
Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.
All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.
Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.
Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.
My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.
My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.
Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
If I would have known you would **** me up this badly, I would have chosen a different locker on the first day of high school. I would have pulled away the moment you put your arm around me and asked me to hold your project from a ceramics class as you attempted to impress me, and succeeded. I would have never become friends with your twin sister. I would have never said yes when you asked me to prom, and I would have sat on my hands when you tried to hold them in the car on the ride there. I would have looked the other way when you kissed me afterwards. I would have said no when you asked me to be yours, and I would have told you I was busy before you came home with me the same day. I would have never said I love you, or agreed to meet you at that park at 4am in the first place. I would have never been seen with you by my neighbor, kissing on park benches in the rain, pretending we were the only ones left in the universe. I would have never let you get mad at me that way, when we screamed at each other outside the only house I’ve ever called home, when I couldn’t even make it inside before tears started falling from my face. I would have never had that water fight with you at the park that used to remind me of my childhood (now it only reminds me of you.) I would have never broken up with you, and gotten back together, and broken up with you, and gotten back together, and broken up with you, and still been in love with you but hidden it under someone else’s bed sheets. I would have never gotten high with you and forgotten all about him for those two short hours. I would have never talked to you on the phone like we used to, until I realized it was six o’clock in the morning and I had class at eight. I would have never listened to that song on repeat for weeks, even though I can’t stand reggae.
I would have never answered the phone when you called and told me you never wanted to speak to me again. I wouldn’t be sitting here, writing to your ghost, as if I would ever have the nerve to say this to your face.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
Never mind steel,
We are creating new materials,
Carbon nano-tubes, poly-ceramics,
Twirl a ball above your head, we are
Building elevators into space,
Stringing massage parlours around the earth,
We are engineering ourselves,
Computer worlds and,
Selling real estate, we
Are leaving the old people,
Behind,
Stained curtains and they are,
Walking into forests,
In Japan.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 4:00 PM UTC
We’re alone, together,
The rhythm of the coffeehouse swirling around us,
A quiet cacophony of colliding ceramics,
flatware, and the splash of coffe hitting cups.
Each lost, writing on legal paper
I buy in daisy yellow in a small attempt to brighten my day.
The couple to our right aren’t anything spectacular, really.
Even though they did talk about
The drug market when you left for the car.
Even farther right, at a table you suggested, I sat with josh.
We came in early on a Sunday morning,
Stumbling clumsily upon a place he really wasn’t too fond of.
Funny, as he complained of the coffee and décor, I wanted to stay more and more.
It irritated me: his lack of knowledge or the willingness to gain one.
With you I’m comfortable,
And secretly, I wish he was sitting there,
So you could butcher him with words.
Chop off his 70’s ***** hair, with one swift cut,
Because you always seem to peg him,
Exactly where he deserves to be hit.
I love the contrast of the moments,
With him, I struggled to see, wished for more, and searched for an end.
With you, skin is velvet, voices: harmony, memory a beautiful cacophony.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 1:14 PM UTC
Boldly, bold balding,
going mad at the buzz of cynic critic--
busting friendships like comic watermelons
atop bloodstained ceramics,
the vultures remain--
always do;
I can see it all boldly while balding, sipping
tomato juice without gin due the doctor's call--
always do;
I can see it all boldly while scraping dirt under nails,
scattering my words at a heel'd walk-in and siren's call.
Boldly, bold balding,
flipping off motorist and through magazine pages--
repairing family ties with thank you notes, faux kind eyes,
never hurt to try,
for the vultures remain -- they won't give their name--
never do;
I can see it all boldly while balding, they ask me
to give two ***** -- when did I give one?
Never do;
I can see it all mostly and smearing, watercoloring
through the floorboards up to the ceiling;
the telephone sings, I answer and receive,
"stay the hell away from me",
and I will.
I will.
I really, really will.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 6:24 PM UTC
What tastes salty?
Obviously potato chips.
Obviously a Californa girls hips.
Your lips after your tears
What tastes sweet?
Obviously the candy shop
Obviously an affair with a cop.
Your kisses in the morning
What tastes refreshing?
Obviously a cup of water.
Obviously a spring from the Alps.
Your skin in the shower.
Move me like the music and the rhythm.
Mold me like the sculptor and the ceramics.
My mistakes I have always shown on the surface,
But yours you have hidden deep beneath the sea.
These little black submarines,
They show in the shallows.
From encased in the hands of the small bird
that sits on your brain stem all day;
a little hope comes of me.
Or at least I muse it would.
I dream of you the whole night through,
and when winter comes I still dream of you.
And when age comes I still dream of you.
And when death comes to you, I still dream of you.
And in death I will come to meet the true you.
Don't take that the wrong way,
no one is behind me to back me up on this,
but you always say I don't know you,
believe me I really try too.
If you ever flew,
I would go with you
and the little birds would carry me through.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
Tomorrow, the phrase
“I love you”
will belong to yesterday’s lips
my feelings for you
will belong to yesterday’s words.
Soon I won’t remember the chords
of your madness
or the taste of your sadness
sitting on my tongue like chocolate mints.
So in these last few weeks
we pull at the strings to rip
at the seams of us with ****** fingertips
cause in a slice of time
your name won’t belong in my rhyme.
You’ll be another past lover
that lives at the bottom of a shoebox
shuffled together with the love letters
of other men who swore themselves to me.
When my daughter fingers through
the pages dedicated to your eyes
I’ll softly remember you
throwing rocks at crooked pottery
from ceramics class. I’ll remember
that dark December and
your flimsy reflection through tinted glass.
I’ll remember what it felt
to be young, naïve,
and madly in love.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
there is a sense of fluency
in his visual metamorphoses
framed in a diaphanous red
that isolates a consciousness
yet at the same time allows a journey
to ultimate extremes
of perfected enhancement
of the higher realization
of unfulfilling limitations
he knows that he can never be free
like a name in an address book
written in blue ceramics
that provides the impulse
to sensitizing thought
to the silence that walls him in
spiraling back in second hand decibels
overloaded with the complex distribution
of metabolic need
forms contradictory impulses
an index of vulnerable and invulnerability
like the familiar dissimilarity in his eyes
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
i giggle at a friend's joke
and wave goodbye to them.
i walk by the streets, kicking rocks
and thinking of dumb old things.
i open the door to the house,
and i am almost used to the sharp, berating voices inside.
i shut them out,
and lay exhausted on my bed.
putting an arm over my eyes,
i rest.
and wake up to them,
looking at me with horrified eyes.
my room is a mess--
a beheaded stuffed bear,
broken ceramics,
crushed scissors,
a butcher knife in my hand,
and warm, crimson fluid streaming down my arm.
what happened, i wonder?
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
all alone in the unaccustomed patches of this
house, irrevocably mesmerized, washing the
eggshell blue ceramics submerged in winter,
all folly for the tallies I've sketched across
my forearm to the number of
pensive detachments I've buried in my pocket
from only that day, and that day alone.
no answers to the manner of this impulsive
habit of stretching my mind across the ocean
a fishing line with no hook
a photo frame with no picture living inside
I’ve turned you into someone you're not
I’ve brought you to places you’ll never be
surrounded by strangers, lovely oblivion
they don’t know, they’ll never know
and neither will you
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
hands in cup
circling, circling,
washing away,
yesterdays detritus
humming, mindless, tuneless
far away in another place
thinking, of memories
slip, crash, drop
favourite cup
now
mosaic on hardwood floor
shards, and shards
me, a barefoot island
in a sea of ceramics
every which way
sharp reefs to navigate
but needs must
I am an island alone
none will rescue me
and i cannot sit all day
one cut,
on big toe
one coffee cup
much loved
now, binned
one bandaid
and off to work
serves me right,
should have paid attention
sheesh I loved that cup
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
There are two philosophical terms
that come from Zen and Japanese Ceramics:
**Wabi,
and
Sabi.**
'Wabi' refers to the flaws of a thing that give it the character it has;
the distinctive feature that makes it what it is.
It could be asymmetry, it could be a crack formed during the creation process.
It could be the thing made by your kid in art class, or by you, even;
those things are crammed with Wabi.
Wabi: Flaws created that individualize, identify and make possible sentimental attachment.
'Sabi' refers to the effects of Time on a thing, showing it's age;
the erosion and change that are inexorable through Time.
It could be the landscape of a foreign planet, or the holes in your jeans.
It could be your tattoos, scars, or psychology.
It could be the scratches on your truck, or the rusting paint you think looks cool.
Sabi: Flaws resulting from being so lucky as to survive long enough to endure things.
Both wabi and sabi lend to a thing Character.
They provide a foundation for relation as well as identity.
They are matters of perspective and thus are subjective.
A perfectionist denies the existence of these,
A romantic says they are all that there is.
As One becomes more open to these notions,
everything becomes a thousand-fold more beautiful.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 4:55 AM UTC
You are
The sun-kissed skin that had an iridescent glow
That time we went to an ice cream parlor
For your birthday
The time I almost drowned in that community pool
The game we played with your Mom
An extension of her auburn-soaked locks
Although yours are blonder
But you have the same ruby red smile.
A kind spirit in a tiny body
The eyes that flared with the flames of a gentle spirit.
Days spent as we played with animals
On farms, at the pumpkin patch
We loved them so dearly when we were young.
A two and a half hour commute, yet worth it every time.
Horse riding with our sisters
As we complained about how annoying they were.
The first time we made ceramics
Yours, of course, were better than mine.
The way our parents would tell us
Of memories of ski trips and college endeavors
That made us hope to be university bound
Even though we were in grade school.
Things have changed.
Now you are motherless
As lung cancer took her life
Eight years ago in March.
Which also happened to be the last time I spoke with you.
I remember,
Dad wouldn't let me go to the funeral.
He said I was too young
I couldn't miss school
The usual.
At the time,
I didn't know if I longed to go to honor her
Or to see you.
It wouldn't be the last funeral he denied me
For various reasons.
I still miss her
But I miss you more.
We lost contact
And the questions I had for you at eight
Still resonate in my overbearing brain.
What was it like to lose her?
How did your father cope?
Did your grandparents move in
To take care of you and your young sister?
Do you remember these memories like I do?
Do you ever think about me?
Do you miss me at all?
New questions compete for their spots.
Do you have a boyfriend?
Do you plan to go to college?
Do you still love to draw?
I would assume you are still putting that angelic singing voice
To good use.
I hope I'm right.
Sometimes, I wonder.
Wonder what it would be like
If we still kept in touch.
Dad said your father
Lost contact with him after your mother's passing.
I know, this is petty
But I still miss every summer day
For the first eight years of my life that I spent with
My very first best friend.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
How creative can you be?
How dramatic does a piece of work have to be
to be worth your time?
How many times have you actually tried to go out of your way and experience molding your own definition of creativity
Clay
Ceramics
The texture, smooth or rough
The form, tall or short skinny of more rounded
The texture, allows you to think and concentrate
nothing else matters when your are planning your piece
The form, allows to risk and try new things
Nothing else matters when you are actually trying
That problem you have before you enter the room
stays at the door maybe it travels with you to the chair,
but as soon as your hands feel the clay and begin to form
the solutions begin to form
Clay is such an easy struggle
You have many decisions to make
How much clay?
How many details?
How many utensils?
How much time?
But that last one is actually the least, no time is good
spend years trying to figure out what you want to make
and then make it in a second
or spend a second figuring it out
and spend those years making it.
Taking your mind out of that thing that happened earlier in the day,
What was it again?
Yup, it was not as fun as clay.
You've build it, you've fired it, not paint it
What colors?
What pattern?
What resemblance will you give it?
One? More than One? maybe way to many,
or too alike of colors.
Black and white,
Wait, what was that?
Ohhhh, remember that problem earlier?
This time actually remember, because it isn't just a problem
It is a problem with a solution.
Now we know what to do!
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 11:10 PM UTC