What To Do Poem by Julia Luber

This is all that there is left to do.
Because the rest of my PH has blanked into
computer drift. All the structural organization
of one's website just evaporates. Once it was
that too many advertisings popped up and interrupted
and disguised the reading process, hiding it behind a kind
of fighting, blinking, popping up, switching, defaulting to
websites and webpages one never wanted a part of. But I
was in the middle of reading about somebody's plans to be
somewhere special at their death. But I was reading about
somebody's dream melted and merged with somebody's most
recent memory of making love. Reading was never supposed to be
this interrupted and jagged. This is the jagged knife experience that
kind of knight's weapon of yore has become. Mixed up, cut up, sluiced up
experience of reading. It's like these words, this poetry, becomes darting
germs in a petri dish while the microscope's perception lens budges into
one's eyeball making everything so uncomfortable. And this continues and
repeats and continues. And I am left with one sentiment most of the time.
There has got to be a better way. And I don't remember this being so bad.