In This Equation Poem by Julia Luber

There are some killers and torturers in here trying to play God.
With their own Israel and everything. a lewd possession in the eyes
of human kind. Strike the kind. God is on to your true nature. God is
steely with a secret force, shadowed in the paranoia of a military so strong
they have masterminded a Manchurian Candidate without even an obvious
dollar contributed to the war effort of their soldier.Citizen Cain or is it Kane or is
it Cane. Of Cane and Abel. And Citizen Kane. Who has the time to do the proper
research except the Universities at this point, endowed with the big money. The
biggest of money. The biggest of money sequestering near to the biggest of money
scrambling after THE BIGTIME. Shhhhh. Calm down. Their crime has been disclosed.
Shhhh, calm down. They were too stupid to go after the best and the brightest.
This is my brightest star-my Northern star and they can not see it and they can
not feel it and they are too in genuine and corrupt by now to understand it. Shhh.
Set aside your murder weapons and even your tears and last your swallowed rage.
Did you know that swallowed rage can make you fat? If not fat, no longer even
pleasantly and subliminally overweight. For your shrewd and keen on target
shoot you are overweight. You should look like your old friend from grammar school
considering how astute in that way you truly are. And as for your enemies, and let's
say for a matter of prayer and resurrection; let's speak of the girl who tried to kill you.
Of course she is enough like Hitler in her cruel intelligence to have implemented
Suicide By Psychiatrist as your fate. The closest to this fate perhaps of anybody in the
history of humanity. It pisses you off to a degenerative and unforgivable degree.
Think about what she drove you to, animal. And on that subject, were you dreaming
of fucking those magnificent beasts or were you strategizing how to avoid being
eaten alive by them? You honestly do not know and you do not recall. RECALL. BUYBACK.
I don't know if that's a financial trick called leverage of time or strictly manifestation
of control. You have leaned towards those mechanisms before but are not sure if they
were worth it. Your dreams of exquisite and charming hamlets did not go over so well
in a decades' overdose. And you doubt the overkill revolution into reality is that extreme.
You are extreme. You have always been extreme by some fruitful edge we artists of the
planet have deemed a kind of genius. We are Artists of the Planet who communicate with
you in that vein you have occupied without our witness. Who is it that calls you a genius?
Nobody. Nobody but one. Who is it that sacrifices their own sense of intellectual power
to a bit of petting of your ego? Nobody, Nobody but one. None of them call you a genius
nor a madwoman but all of them call you a poet. And nobody from that other side of life
ever dipped their quill into that one. Nobody was ever that rugged and confrontational
with you as to call you a genius. Critics and cunts do not sit around calling somebody
like you a genius. Frankly, they are in strict competition-to the point of being brutal
and sadistic and actually out to kill you. Now mind you these are not people who are in your
Habit of Poetry. You wear the habit of poetry, my dear; sweetheart. More so than you wear
even the practice of your instrument you were so diligent at and such a classical student
of. Oh God, Kill Kill. Am I going to go on and on with this forever? Oh God, Kill Kill, I thought
I had submitted myself to a new dedicated plan. Oh God, Kill Kill-is the world really this
much of a mystery. Oh God, Kill Kill, Come Closer; Hear Me Out! I don't know if you are allowed to be that RAW AND WRONG in the public realm. But in the private realm? And
are Politics private or public? Do you notice, as a poet, that all I do is Question. I am
like Job, No? Job from The Bible…..No? I question and whine and complain on a very
sophisticated aggressive TELL ALL, expose the torturers and the killers level.
Who's gonna listen to me about The Torturers, and The Killers. And shouldn't we
simply name The Tortureers as well Domestic Terrorists by now? Sing Sing. You write
good songs that we know nothing about. Sing Sing.Their melodies are like The Milk
and Honey of Israel, and you are not sure that is a compliment with what their music
sounds like in certain places. While you are not certain about anything anymore because
of those Goddamn Terrorists, Torturers and Killers. SHIT. You are too old to bare
that anymore and you could die from it. SHIT. Because you are not some great success,
you do not think of yourself as a genius at all. We mean on the money stone. You're
shit hitting the fan on that one, so by this point-you kind of think you're dumb.
You can't help it. You can't separate the two. While the gang style kill thrill murderer who is now a cop is being paid near a hundred thousand dollars a year or more to be a detective
who is undercover as a homeless person you would never guess in a million years is actually
a transgender detective who has committed a gang style thrill kill murder which the LAPD allows. You don't know what terrifying is, honey. One things for sure: I know that GSTK under cover detective hiding as a homeless person does not read PoemHunter. She would never
do anything that she is not being paid directly to do. She would never bother to read poetry out of fascination, interest, mental release and relief. It makes me wonder who I would have to be for the LAPD to care about me, and look into my twenty six page profiling and do what they should do about it. Find the news clip. I think around November 10,2010 or 2011. It is all a blur of trauma and shock to me now. I think that was the date around which I must have seen that news clip on television. Because I wrote on my Facebook page out of nowhere- Watched The News Today. As "What's On Your Mind? " And that's all I wrote. Like I knew I had gone into incredibly traumatic levels of shock. And did not know what to do and did not know how to TELL. The time before on a MAJOR PROFILING had taken six months after identification. It was that shocking and hard to believe. But this- this is not your job neither to know any of this. So this is not poetry. Near a decade later and I'm still sweating from it and it's still unresolved. This is too tricky for me. Maybe I should start editing my saga series as one paragraph poems on PoemHunter. I'm just not going to say nor write-It's time to give up and die. You know I am a poet; I think about Death all the Time.