The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Unquenchable Gravities and The Ozian-Durgan-Janus-Mask

My marionetted animus plucks its radial string,
the tether of an inescapable gravity turning
my orbit into a death spiral of the temporal
as my attention dances between the thrall of
forbidden foci and a garden of brown-eyed susans
none of which feed the ardency of my moment 
of inertia, a damned and crooked axle 
scratching the patina off my 
scaley-eyed, lacquered serpent mask 
as I stutter into my ozian[1] voice box and
wave my durgan[2] arms akimbo against the 
azimuth of falling meteoroids escaping 
the flare of a new dawn's light-drenching-approach,
to blush with vernal cheek
and so turn my swarthy janus[3] jaw 
from my incipient formlessness
and let my swollen jackfruit fall.
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