The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
The Inevitability of Turning

In the light of the inverse
I struggle to push my cubic corpus
through the mincing of your words
failing to imagine what sausage 
I should be

I am the tendril unfurled
muttering in ineffables
percolating with mad giggles
failing to hold still
to see

Archeological perfume 
gives that wasabi pique and
cleaves like an ice axe
my demure melancholia
stripped of reasonable robes
I swaddle in the patchwork of
the fur cloak alluring
and cajoling my loins to 
abandon their eruptions
the spasms of mind sinews plucked

I thought the tune could lift
my lacrimosity from its arid grave
but the cloying of your wise nectar
topples my Thrasymachian recalcitrance
and unEdens the virginity of my
seraphic birthright.
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