The Dishwasher’s Tears:

The Dishwasher's Tears

It’s just an excuse, I know. But right now I don’t think I could write a passable poem if you put a gun to my head. I feel as if I’ve gone tone deaf for the music in the language, and lost my visual acuity as well. What used to happen when I saw the word “tractor” or “garbanzo” was that my head would swim in scents, colors, mood, memory… each word and image sparked another and it was off to the races. Maybe the first line or two would come out false and forced, but pretty soon I could break through the hard surface and be off into the depths of something visceral, real.

But lately the word “bowl” conjures up only itself, squat and pedestrian.

No milk to go with it, no cereal, no pale and slender arm propped up next to the bowl, keeping a gleaming silver…

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