I swear.
I jab in my thumbs, collapsing the pot.
Wet clay spins into a ragged flower shape.
I gather it up, smash it into a ball again.
I throw it at the wheel.
Wet smack.
Re-center, you
bastard.
The damn thing always goes crooked.
Eighth try is a charm.
There is a lot of profanity in art.
I ease on the pedal.
I think about painting.
I am better at painting.
Why the hell am I not painting right now?
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