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.