The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Refractory Periods

Lest we forget our biologics
the stinky starstuff that encases our animus
and how easily we rush to believe the illusory
in the grand wisdom of our mother
our corpus is but a spasmodic protoplasm
that pulses like a sleeping Macintosh
we may climb the mountain to plant our sword
but mother calls bedtime and we are 
poured into pajamas, to tuck our bits away
so let us not be amazed when
our mind's eye dances upon the disco euphoria
of dreamstates, and then we must awake
or when the wind lifts our eagle spirit to
glide from the troposphere, expect
our potential energy to squirt out 
in entropic bloodlettings for we know 
our destiny is to fall to a lower orbit 
just as surely as we arise on the third day
inexplicably as the sun which rises until
it doesn't on that day of the last surprise.
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