The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Join the Last Rally

It be ten past the hour
and all is not at all unwell 
fleeing down a lost alley
singing a broken elegy against
bricks covered in snotted tears
fingers carving into mortar
screaming to pass through this
wall
to welcome a new zombierise 
where skewed clockhands don't chime
and the fallen breathe from 
love's unwillingness to surrender
a new projection of stolen fire
the mind's convulsing to defy
the cruelty of uncaring laws
yet here now between these stars what 
must be 
must be
unmolest this constellation and
as the pivot strains to turn
leave the orbits to their 
daydancing and gayprancing
the colorful dripping of dreams
of the unlonely chosen
annointed by an unctuous lube
greased across the lintels so
our baseball-batted cisters
will pass over and on to
their little crucified feifdoms
and leave us to glorify 
all the birds and fishes 
filling the plumage-rich oceans 
popping the no longer mollycoddled
as pearls and slurping down our
brother clams with gusto and
childish delight welcoming whatever
endangered and traumatized animations
may walk along the irridescent seashore
let us unzip our expectations and
be the next whelkshell willing to
sing a lullaby and cradle the unloved
as treasure found to bedeck heaven
onto earth and embelish all our 
soiled instincts and disinclinations
into a patient fascination and
unfettered education in how small our
parade is though no less flamboyant
or forgotten by any insular pride
here we celebrate until our time
comes to drop untethered into
the beautiful beyond.
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