The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Ontic Thief

Were a word able to escape
the gravity of finitude
it would leave behind its peacock plumage,
trade the warm rainforest of wet meanings
for the cold vacuum of the absolute,
a stone corpse anchor point in the pearlescent 
web of a lived lexicon of tenderhearted
capture threads spiraling a dark ego
whose hourglass sparkles with emotivity
as eight legs pensate on a deeper scaffold
not webbed, not spiraling, but anchored
in tautological mushrooms whose spores 
enthrall with the enticing aroma of 
grand unity or at least humble certainty
that there is a point let alone a reference,
but Euclid was too prone to hyperbole
with eyes unable to compound or connect
enough dots with a single strand of thought
for this poor hemp seems oddly knotted into
periodic chunks blown from a hiveless mind
with spinneret lips ever starting new silk
baskets to contain our mental fodder and
feed the hunger for stolen fire.
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