The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
The Beauty of the Craquelured

I am the crack of the yolk leaking
gazing in contemplations unravelling
broken barnacle adrift in spermaceti
echolocations of the metaphysical
or more honestly the metacognitive 
apparitions that steam from the
ardent attention of staring at the linear
and welcoming the bloom of polka dot inkblots 
in our squishy cloud chamber lobes
nictitating at the sun and scrambling
back into the crevasse of our beliefs
where owl pellets collect from the
silent swoopings upon our gnawing fears,
our own bezoars to the bubonic 
a canvas caked in white castings 
as we paint in turpentines and 
wipe oil from our third eye's 
copal-cry-crusties revealing our 
trirefringent tendency to hold in
tension too much weft while wielding
a mangrove heart that rejoices in
the saltiness of hurricanes and the
juicy jetsam they pry from our
attempts at beach burials of the
fiddled carcasses of our 
cowardly failures to imagine.
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