The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
On the Intermittency of Consciousness

With a throb of the focal distance scattered by
the myriad sparkle of neuronal cascade
we peer through the scaffolded slit with
our goose bump array of an aperture like a
maw opening around a slickened finger
the obtuseness is patently grotesque
aspew with the grit of bloody sweat upon the 
graffiti clockwork pinned upon silicone sapphire
toroids pendulously sinusoiding between me and thee.

A clear-sighted drink of a wet meniscus waxing 
to totality hastily evaporated to prognostications,
an economic exchange of beans for cotyledonous
apprehensions that keep our gills against 
oceanic salinities made vividly sulfurous with
the byproducts of failing to rupture sufficiently
in the great diffusive protoplasmic flow of
evolutions sporadically giving way to novel
topologies as the edges fade beyond the ripe.

Identity is the eye clinging to a 55mph tree
while awash in the streaming smear of greens
amused by the twisting bristles we call mileposts
perturbing our skyrocket slalom to keep the paint 
between the grinds of another daily reckoning
strewn across the asphalt's pyritic glitter
lost in the ichor of ancient skeletons compressed
so that our feet may tread on the incomprehensible
and lead the codebreakers to sift for cognizance.
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