Keep On Doing Poem by Julia Luber

When silence articulates a motive, they listen; the flower's petals furl,
and then close up. One might wonder how anything can be heard in
that ear full of wax; income tax, debt- beset with blind ambitions finding
their way to a habitual practice - an essence of repetition that almost
feels like skill. For them, it is not a time to kill. They are not this way.

There is a pulse, well versed, to this society of embezzled fascinations. Intoxicated
elations transcribe as easily to compulsively celebrated anomalies of any tradition
besides that of the daily circumcision explained in the newspapers reports on so many
instruments seized from a garden, untended becomes as standard as a death hum
overshadowing and more powerful than any flower and what its parts keep on doing.