The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Ephemera

Though the roar of titan spheres
grinding against my cube's corner
forever fail to winnow my mousy husk
from this tree-of-paradise-uprooted.

Though santa's sleigh may slice off
the sacred into candied-mincement-cordials
we too happily stagger beneath the parcel weight 
yearning for a more sacred sip

while fingers fondle among the tasseled tapestry
and pluck the piquant pimentoed olive from its brine 
the self smolders alone in its last vapors
with a painted harlequin smile dangling for
the wolves to eviscerate into a vaunted validation
lest the chorus fall silent to Dionysian dithyrambs
that disintegrate into dissipation or at least
an exhaustion of eudaimonia's evanescent end.
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