The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Salt of what Earth?

The unscripted instinct to be-short or be-long
sudo simon says permission granted or take it
make it or at least something for the king to wear
or swear your sword to a lesser god without words
but the verbal violence of the basement-bold, the
hide-under-the-bridge troll who keeps good gate
while scarfing low-sodium flaming hot cheetoes

Smack your lips and lick your fingertips to a
powder burn counting the unnecessary hordes
hoarding around the flickering rim of rusty barrels
lifted between eyes supplicating for humanity
but too little too late or over my iced body
so jubilantly obliged by the troglodytic who 
find their oats too bland to break as daily bread.
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