Papers on the wall

I'm grinding and spreading 
in this mortar and pestle 
all the words I know or think i know,
adding my thin paste as I cut open
my creativity, that vagrant raincloud
(seldom there when the earth cracks),
and out comes this: 
an ambition, an aspiration,
a waltz, a zenith. 
So I tape up scribbling to my wall-
a muse to invoke at my convenience
(a self-induced muse, that is). 

No matter,  it happens when time goes down: 
a scratch on the frontal lobe
and I forgot the shape of the pestle
(how was this before I forgot?). 
The wallstriking and facepressing,
oh, the upwardlooking, the templescratching,
and then it pops, sometimes: 
even if you forget the shapes of things,
the molecules don't change. 
Truth, truth, truth, why do I 
view you as a billboard? 
And after I pick up the pestle
and set down my words into the mortar
(between my ears, somewhere)
it's: back to it, worker. 
Ban the downtime. 

1 comment:

  1. Favorite line:

    "Truth, truth, truth, why do I
    view you as a billboard?"

    Excellent, friend.