The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
To Be Bothered

Would that monk would meditate 
on more than their own starving 
quieted by the quest for the Convergence
tradition is the muricidic garb 
for which we have little choice but
to cast lots to cover our flaccidity
ornamentating by the unnuancing of
our carbuncle cravings whose
tides are drawn by lunactics
like a bath to cristen our
mutterings into magna cartas
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