When you’re stuck in the old there’s nothing new to write about. Same soup,
just reheated.
It’s like trying to paint with a palette full of red. Sure, you have
scarlet, blood, rose, burgundy, and wine— which, by the way, has even more
varieties: merlot, sangria, cabernet. At the end of the day, though, it’s all just
red. Red in different flavors, saturations, intensities. You can’t paint a world
with just red. Never mind, I lied. I’m sure someone can, but I’ve tried and
I’ve ruined far too many canvases trying to be bold, or feral, like Rothko
or Kandinsky. I can’t do much with red. I’m looking for a soft lavender, or
an electric yellow, or I’d even settle for a pink. Just anything new to dip my
brush into, a novel shade to fill my inkwell. These days, every poem I write
is a regurgitation of the last. Same concept, different words to hold it captive.

Serve me something fresh on a platter, boil me a new kind of soup. Italian
wedding, french onion, a hearty clam chowder, I hardly care at all. I want
to burn my tongue with another broth, cleanse my palate with a strange
otherness. I’m drowning in the alphabet with nothing left to spell. I could
write about that, but I already have. Here, I’ll even do it again. 3, 2, 1—

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