And Respect It Poem by Julia Luber

The compulsive recreation of memory has a mammy in the sunshine:
disposing stereotypes to a kind of sensual impact that is actually needed
at this point, by now. A mandatory force reminding the headstrong power
of time to hold back, keep it down, lay off, back up, shut down. A man-
at-arms might come along, a princely priceless dude to display an object
of dedication: a substitute for a reality that is recognizably long gone.
It's like life itself is trying to excuse itself for being time. Material objects
swapped for the reckoning recreation once habituated. Reflexes will subsume
the umbrella demonizing and displacement, like a swimmer's itch invariably
taking our adoration of water away. Salt is a swordfish, honing in, swooping
forward into life replacing time, now edible, omnivorous cuisine. Ultimately
the striking pointed patterns of these recreations will be manifest in another
life, a far different tomorrow long far away. So much will happen between then
and now. Swooning now through time irretrievable. Culminating somehow
in a vision as clear as memory but only recommended to the future instead.
Time does not move swoopstakenly but is more like a bullet without a killer,
without a target. These aggressions on the beauty of life and its sancity were
and are mistakes. And there are so many reminders of that. Poetry practically
pax like the Ten Commandments will return God to the future; will make of
enslavements that it is not the poem that is the home of this traction in a
form of dream like consciousness, but a moral noise that shouts over forces
so noxious and toxic, so unbelievably disgusting, that death and its wish has
become only reflex and yet it is recreation that must be returned to and reminded
of. Ugliness has come vestige in a dormancy point at microphysics. I swear this
all means something important, profound, and well meaning. I swear this will
to survive has to be protected and seduced into a desire besides that to kill.
I must remind myself that I am genteel and this has become the purpose of memory.
To make sure that I don't kill somebody, because it will only hurt myself.
But bow does that ever need to be killed. And boy has that ever been a least priority.
It has not been invented because they do not want it to be invented. They do not
want that profession to be overtaken by invention, dignity, and legal solutions.
And so being, they do not want solutions. They are embalmed by something
noxious in the human spirit-like an index point in time they forgot how to take
flight. And they stayed alert to something that has no future, that has no meaning,
that has no purpose, but in excruciation, boy, does it ever have power. And boy,
has it ever sunk the power of hypnosis into a generation that might ultimately
destroy everything we ever worked to create and give to life and the planet earth.
Do not let the agendas mix indiscriminately. Don't create a toxic soup with an
unmark able target. At least know the difference and respect it.