The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Supine Sunbeams

The white ape's solitary camp
burns meager chattel for warmth
nurses a different kind of ember
born of black volcanic flames
and stolen anthracites garnered
from blind sallies into vacant caves
long ago were spent the mutterings
of the sane and erect, instead the now
moves in a nebulous pall flittering
between rituals to sort the nights
and render remembrances in relief
with chisel-whittled runes scored
along corundum veins tucked into 
sap-sealed buck pelt amid a bed
of sweet grass and herbs good for
the staunch of bloody wounds 
and the dull of apoplexies.

The untouched singleton has no 
need to construct romantic words 
or craft symbols to incite the heart
to faiths and other untested promises
or grasp at cosmological hubrics
as if the future could be discerned
apart from the litter of corpses and
bones picked clean that living exhorts
us to craft from its bounty and make
into little statuettes to remind us
of our visual consumptions so we have
something to stick up our bored ass 
when we are driven into comeletting
so we can sink into the starlit supine
and be inexplicably awakened by the 
unexpected recursion of light and 
the breaming colors of warming vegetation.
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