Swell Zine: Poetry

when the wind squirrels its way beneath the
fallen leaves,
and jack the big-dicked boy
lies naked on his back and feels
the wind on his nipples, toes,
and throat,
there are moments of pure
joy inside jack's sweet
sexed-up brain,
and as he lies there on
his back naked, the wind
sliding and gliding all over him and
stirring up the autumn leaves
strewn all around,
jack sighs and makes sucking
movements with his lips,
breathing in the autumn
wind, breathing in the
rich ripe scent of fallen
leaves--one of them flits
against his left nipple,
and at that exact moment,
jack knows the fingertips
touching his own big smooth cock
are not really his own, but
owned by the wind,
the leaves, the forest,
and that's the moment
when jack spurts cum
and whimpers with
melancholy joy,
just like a crazy mixed-up
lover, just like
a sweet sexy sexed-up autumn-crazed
boy.

Rx

going on a picnic with
people you don't like is
quite a mess, really.
what with the insects,
the smell, the general
smugness of insinuated debris.
**
your sense of dread is palpable,
your flights of fancy so
far and so far away that they
lure you toward total escapism,
the bottle, the pill,
the sweetly dripping liquid.
**
sex on the beach.
**
feeling good is so temporary.
feeling whole is the tough part.
as if it isn't all about that
anyway, trading this for
that, little bits for big,
what works at the moment
for what works over time.
as oscar wilde said,
the reward of virtue,
is more virtue.
**
and if you still expect order
out of chaos, try
the fries, with ketchup,
marbleized countertops
a nice place to present
the meal.
**
and for goodness' sake,
avoid those goddamn picnics:
at least in your kitchen, you'll
have your window panes, &
you'll have your respect.

try to explain

a moment when sparks jump around
inside my head like loose wires
during a thunderstorm--
**
a moment when all the serial
killers of the world suddenly
make sense--
**
a moment when the messes i have
made out of so many situations
are white-hot energy, searing
my fingertips, scorching the eyelashes
above my squinty blue eyes--
**
a moment when a tv report about
a sexy young man who looks
tall skinny smart sexy
sexy sexy is indicted for
6 counts of writing graffiti
in nice neighborhoods and oh
yeah of dropping a can of
paint on a police
car from a sky scraper while
on a high-school art field
trip in NYC, and in this
moment i picture myself
and this young man in bed
having the wildest most
torrential torrent of sex
anyone has ever seen, and
then after, we smack each
other up the side of the
face for several moments
until our cheeks are rosy
red and our dicks are so
hard again they practically
spurt cum without even a...
**
a moment when crows circle
the backyard, waiting to
dine on fallen apples, the
fungal excrement of obliterated
death-watch a numbskull keepsake
while waiting for something
to make sense, and feel good,
and right, and proper.
**
at this moment, at this precise
moment, tranquility is only
a sea on mars, or the moon,
or a state achieved in a dream
of youth, beauty, and precision.
**
at this moment, precision a
wheel rut in a back road
on a muddy bank in the south,
the skulls eroding out of
the creekbed have been
there a very long time,
and certainly won't be
going anywhere at all,
anytime soon, even though
they're restless and feel
like frolicking the day
away, as if they still
had a choice.

Carl Miller Daniels just turned 54 years old. He currently lives in ruggedly masculine Homerun, VA. Over the years, his poems have appeared in lots of nice places: Cedar Hill Review; Chiron Review; Dispatch; FRiGG; FUCK!; a couple of Future Tense Books anthologies; Nerve Cowboy; Pearl; Poetry Super Highway; Poetz.com; Slipstream; Wormwood Review; Zygote in my Coffee; and 5AM, to name a few. Daniels has had two chapbooks published in the past dozen years or so: Shy Boys at Home (published by Chiron Review Press), and Museum Quality Orgasm (published by Future Tense Books). The poet Antler wrote the following comment for Daniels' chapbook Shy Boys at Home, and Antler's comment appears on the cover of that chapbook: "Carl Miller Daniels' poems incarnate youthful gay sexuality with gentleness, passion and delight. Shy Boys at Home is a unique contribution to the renaissance of gay poetry in America at the beginning of the new Millennium." On three separate occasions, Daniels has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He and his lover, Jon (aka "the sweetest man in the world"), have lived together for over 25 years.