The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
The Beatnik Brawl

How beautiful your silken wrappings
your fire-dabbled fingertips drawing away
the curtain from the prehistoric jungle
sultry and as fossiliferous as corundum-heavy
with the schiller and sheen of an ammolitic soul
draped in the velvet of clovered honey as the
aroma of mead wafts with the delirifacience of 
distilled dreamwork, stolen promises, and 
the conjectures of equations preening their
moth-like antennae though they all perish in
the light and splendor of whispered secrets,
the page turned and over, and the echo
of the painter's hand beating against the canvas.
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