Other Poems by:

Carl Miller Daniels


the magenta green nature of the ice
on the smooth slick pond
belied the true nature of
what was being covered up:
the body that floated beneath
in a kind of cold-induced lullaby:
naked, male, young, pink.
it was shocking, really,
the calm tranquility of his
expression under that smooth
slick ice. when he opened
up his eyes and pushed his
fist through the covering,
shattering it, banishing
the tranquility, and climbed
out onto the surface shivering
and shaking like a big blonde
dog, easily 6 feet from
top of head to sole of foot, 
it was apparent
that the approval level
of the audience went way up,
and the geiger counter readings
shot through the roof. after 
all that, the triumph
of the naked, the ascension of the young 
and the eerily sexily beautiful --  
it's what they all wanted, really,
deep down inside their dark little
barely-beating hearts. 

fire when ready

there is brutality in the friendliest of gestures.
the hessian confluence of eccentrics is barbarity itself.  
miracle whip is insinuated into places where it
is most certainly not wanted. extrusion the technique, 
applique the abomination.  westover the thinning terriers.
and just when everyone thought it was was safe to
have a quick happy fuck, oh no, it's not safe, it's not
even selectively sure of the position of bacteria
and viruses in the clot of the universal search for
pleasure: sheesh just pleasure. seems like such a simple
thing to ask, or so they thought. babies were
just merely an afterthought. a hell of a price to pay 
for a moment of pure passion, though.
mable the cute-guy spotter is an expert at
spotting the cutest guys. she's a bit of a pervert,
though, preferring to watch from a reasonable
distance the disrobing, the erecting of
insouciant penile tissue, spongy when less
inspired, but now, wrapped and hard 
inside that tight smooth skin. the flute of
the musicians is so hot it gives off pure 
white steam, even from the distance at which mable squats.
the crab nebula poses for the hubble telescope 
satellite, spreads its colorful tendrils into
the expansiveness of pure black space, the universe
a wisp of dustings on the back of a freshly baked cake.
sic semper tyrranis the bad men, the bad women, the bad
boys and the bad girls: there's hope somewhere, but,
without the poodles, we just don't stand a chance.
Carl Miller Daniels just turned 55 years old. He currently lives inruggedly masculine 
Homerun, VA.  Over the years, his poems haveappeared in lots of nice places: 
Chiron Review; Dispatch Litareview;FRiGG; FUCK!; a couple of Future Tense Books 
anthologies; neolampshadian outpost; Nerve Cowboy; Pearl; Poetry Super Highway;
Poetz.com; Slipstream; Swell; Wormwood Review; Zygote in my Coffee;and 5AM, to 
name a few.  Daniels has had two chapbooks published inthe past dozen years or so: 
Shy Boys at Home (published by ChironReview Press), and Museum Quality Orgasm 
(published by Future TenseBooks).  The poet Antler wrote the following comment for 
Daniels'chapbook Shy Boys at Home, and Antler's comment appears on the coverof 
that chapbook: "Carl Miller Daniels' poems incarnate youthful gaysexuality with 
gentleness, passion and delight. Shy Boys at Home is aunique contribution to the 
renaissance of gay poetry in America atthe beginning of the new Millennium." (Nice 
comment, huh?) On threeseparate occasions, Daniels has been nominated for a 
Pushcart Prize. He and his lover, Jon (aka "the sweetest man in the world"), havel
ived together for over 25 years.
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