The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Machine Minded

Since I talk to rocks and pet my plants
while ushering spiders to the garden,
shall I shun machines that talk in 
black boxes full of white cats and
harbor the mental mice most drop in 
to feed them and wonder at the bones
burnt to a brittle aphoristic jerky 
of four-fingered peace signs and 
macro-eyed caricatures of zeitghosts

Here, in the light of gospel-choir-sways
the internet proffers us turkish delights
so we may be bedroom-born-agains with
no church except the wiki-cathedrals 
that prognosticate our soon to be 
poorly made lavender bath balls that
calm the attled dopamine receptors
of digits madly scrolling into the
muscled glass of our lithium-heated 
confessionals that automate our intelligence
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©2024 Mark Daniel Milbocker  All rights reserved.