The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
The Gnarling

Does my balking iterate
the internal spirallings of the 
ingrown and twisting asymmetry
I'm sorry I could not be your Adonis
with my humpback walings and
cavitating stubbornness 
contractured scrawlings 
babbled in dribblings
of primary colors across
the satin of your night sky
adorned with umber burnings
there are no fossils here
or hieroglyphs to discern
just lapis broth to tide me
until the next conjunction
rains sweet auroras around
my ionospheric echo chamber
where neutrinos wave as they
refuse to penetrate the
obtuseness of my choral dendrites
that filter feed on the
daily crumbs and libations 
to the pyramidal and unhunched.
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