Pavlovian Addiction Poem by Julia Luber

And poetry is my Pavlovian addiction. Call me robot, romantique.
But of all life's complex addictions, it is that of poetry which I shall stick.
Like a pawl, it is into poetry I fall. I pay the piper everyday.
Not many listen to what I say. But when it is poetry I cleave my mind unto,
I feel one way or another, it has been a smart thing to do.

Mean people, even once friends, have sought to corner me into other engagements.
That unforgivable one into psychiatric confiscation by threat commandment.
And she got what she wanted to get out of it- my ostracized suicidality…
Yes, with all she has and all she's blessed with, it's all she ever did for me.
And after so much chaotic and insulated suffering, I turn to poetry again, over all her wrongful connoitering.

And she came round to kill me again thirty years later. Because it didn't work the first time.
And she paraded in my face in aggressive fraud and insensitive violation, wiping herself
all over everything that was mine. And she contaminated so many of my favorite places
with herself, kind of mocking the civil rights of so many races. As a genuine and truly puritanical thing. She can not stand the pedestal of another is her Holy Ring.

I wish I had turned to Poetry, only poetry, sooner. As she did everything she could to
me to Ruin Me, Ruin Me. As she pea cocked her difference and her billions with so
many rents. As she showed off her billions in Ferraris as millions. As she caused me
a haunting and humiliating collapse. Again. As if nothing had really changed since then.
Since when she became my complete Enemy. Torturing, killing, destroying me -with
suffering and suicidality: because I cried drunk to her. Because I cried drunk to her.

And begged her to hug me one night. To her that was the ultimate crime, offense and
chance, to use my vulnerability, my radical exposivity, my first impulse confidence and cathection.what and who she 'does' now, need I even mention….but having to do it in my face, so I know, so it suffocates me, so I'm off my reconstructive pace- what a terrible
unforgivable disgrace. I guess I can only turn to Poetry, Poetry, Poetry for whatever
is Haunting me, Haunting me, Haunting me. And I regret the day that I turned to

Anything else. To deal with these things that nobody wants to listen to, but that
I can kind of write down as being done with and felt. But I want you to know that
she threat commanded me, with her word backboned by close to a billion-
I guess she was out to kill me, wanting more like a trillion. It was never enough for her,
never enough for her. And when it comes to Hitler, my silent mind booms out
Her Were, Her Were, Her Were.