Memory Force Poem by Julia Luber

I have come across the name of my poem I am writing now
Memory Force by reading Dr. Geeta Radhakrishna early in
the morning. The only sounds are that of the refrigerator making
odd humming thrums because it is not new enough, and it is not
mechanically sound enough, and it is not stainless steal enough.
I am suddenly as aware of my comparative poverty as I am of my
poetry. And I fear I have lost my poem to financial stresses, losses,
and awarenesses of not having the newest SubZero shone in the latest
Architectural Digest. I want to. I want what is presented as most polished
and good and efficient; I really do. My desire is vacuumed up into materialistic
needs systemmed by fear as to why the refrigerator sounds so odd and broken,
so I am haunted by how much money and adherence to good decisions it takes
these days and everyday and so it seems always. I am schizzied into a digression
of anxiety, even trauma, remembering the time the billionaire outbid me on a
condo I desperately needed as my main residence for one of his thousand upon
thousands of multi million dollar profits out of such a.0000000001% or so of his
money.The billionaire was the father of my once best friend. I went on family trips
with them and spent time with their family. I had no idea he nor they would ever
ruin my life in certain ways. I actually thought the opposite was more likely.

I want out of this poem. This has nothing to do with Dr. Radhakrishna.
Unless she is dreaming of a SubZero Stainless Steal new refrigerator too.
And that is NOT what my dreams were about! My dreams were that an old
old friend whose father was a famous movie star threw a surprise party for me
at a house I was not that familiar with-that I had never been in in real life. And then
there were these strange performers there who were showing off how every time they
shot at us they missed. And then one of the shooters came up to me and gathered up
all the stray bullets which had missed us, which were all of them, scattered around us
and then he took my palms in his and mixed the bullets with something, I am not sure
what, and then, magically, all the stray bullets and something else in our palms turned
into cocaine. Cocaine bursting from my palms in his like magic dust like sugar more than
powder. The consistency of sand and sugar. It was a weird dream. This has nothing to
do with Dr. Geeta. It is just a question of how and why I sat down to write a poem and it
turned into kind of a mess about cocaine.