The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Masquerade Tea Party

I see the glaucoma of the mad-joy King
the venom quickens less if you relax your pulse
tea leafs stain but not like lead and sulphur
whose ferment produces eggs of a thousand years
having been buried in the lye of freedom
captivating with its faceted sunbeams-
if you look closer it is a triptych of mirrors
not that I worship rice paper aphorisms
but I have a funny-bone that aches whenever
rusted clouds, irony-heavy and low, roll across
my Montana eyes that prefer gilded buttercups
as we all whisper deific riddles and 
giggle at the stains left on palimpsests.
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