The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Reign Dance
  I

Gails the storm at midnight that drifts
nightfall into mounded shelves of shadows;
the waves that wallow in dark eddies
seldom produce a maelstrom but from time to 
time flow in confluent congruence to 
massive effect: dark leviathan towering 
over the waters with volcanic thundering
spawning voltaic rivulets and sulfuric rain
so flashes the flint of a jawbone set to
a star tearing the ocean floor flesh wide with
the unyielding drag of anchors askew and
cavitating against the roil of the spiral
descent of obsession's treasure chest.
II
So whispers the distant pelting of hellhail
while I mutter to myself in riddles I've 
already solved and trace the flash of memories 
with my blank finger hovering behind my ear
as my crystal radio mind drifts to the next
resonant peak of delicious amplitudes that
tingle the tongue with the blood of new prey-
shall we sip it like an astringent burgundy
to dye our emperor cloth with renewed crimson
or quaff the victor's ale with a rapture of 
carnivorous abandon and musky jubilation spilt
out upon the gruesome fields of our unsatiable
devastation where wolves may howl unfettered.
III
Defy the expected cadence and reassemble 
history into a better cadre of coincidences,
shame the sheeply for their ignorant lack
of prognostication and make them a purer grist
for its only grift to the crystal-eyed mages
and the rest will burn quite nicely in smoky
spires perfumed with their indulgent novels
that they so treasured as citadels of their
principled conceit for nature abhors fairness
unless it is flaxen and comely and angelic.
IV
For me, in my house, we shall begin the rain dance
strip down to our nubuck hide and join with 
the earth as she cries for the white buffalo slain.
Hear their ridiculous truths as a droning drum 
calling down fire from heaven as we spin
upon this global pyre of mad kings and 
self-loathing queens of the ungovernable.
For we feel the hour in all its grandeur,
our feet beat against the clouds where the
thunderbird dwells in slumber and humbly 
concede to the tricksters their due for our
sup is a richer gruel, unfermented like 
stolen pears fallen from the world tree.
We watch from behind our mask in plain sight 
and join the rhythm of the turtle drum 
in silent haunch and jaguar-eyed, counting 
the turnings until we may leap.
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