The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
The Intrinsic Orbits of Beauty

What is that dark, unprobable
pinhole whose gravity
holds the spheres in sway
"hello" is our last timeless graviton,
painless canned sorrow,
the excruciation of ennui,
lost expectations like so many
chalky craters or broken bones?

I routinely walk through walls!
What with the wafting of cinnamon
and honey crusted sultanas,
drawn beyond the binarity of stardom,
I see the everpresent phaedra,
the barren balcony of the
ultimacy of solitude.

Thusly I spoke!  And worlds splintered
before the acuity of my eye,
beanstalks thrust toward heaven,
and my every fantastic flower unfolds.

Only when I tire, and my ire expires,
forgoing any further to sire or sing,
do I begin to see how truth is legion,
and though the motivations surpass me,
and 'why' remains a silly word,
The multiplicity and depth of spectrum
are not lost on my willful impudence.

The trick is to watch with all my eyes
on so many brilliant sanguine apples
dripping with indelible sap, and
raise my arms to the cosmic tree
and thereby to fall forever into the
acceptance that I am but a burl,
gnarled but true, solitary in my beauty,
waiting for the eternal wildfire to
transform my sinew to sweet sandalwood.
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