All Gone Poem by Julia Luber

And now they are occupying the silence that sex breeds
with themselves as the core trance of silence; with themselves
and what they make silence mean. They have extorted a true
and a purer silence into humiliation, dispossession, subjugation,
violation, insult, and disrespect. And set themselves in the sacred
temples of silence instead. And sex could have been confused for sleep
as well, which is a harmless silence-practically musical. But now,
everything has become a kind of imposed fraud: strangely proud,
and parading of a kind of athletic strength and health-so unnatural
only very few can attain it or be part of it. But it has excommunicated
everybody else. And this is a problem. A problem so severe and so grave
that it has been decorated and hidden and disguised because merely
a glimpse can kill you, merely a glimpse can make you die.
Not all things are overcome. So many things are merely suffered silent,
chronically, fatally: complete undoing and invalidation of the exquisite
truth and power of life, of vitality, of raw and pure existence. All gone.