2 Poems by Carl Miller Daniels

sometimes, time pitty-pats on quiet feet

it was unlikely that he would be overheard, but
still, though, the sexy young man
was always very very quiet when he
was masturbating. he lay on his
back, surrounded by dozens of others
who slept around him. it was on
the maximum security ward of
a psychiatric hospital. a handtowel
dangled from the head of the metal bed.
most of the other patients seemed to be
medicated to a far greater level
than he was. they slept the sleep
that would not end until they
were awaken by the orderlies
in the morning. him, though,
he wasn’t as heavily medicated.
he guessed he wasn’t as “sick”
as those with whom he was
surrounded. in the middle
of the night, looking at
the bars that covered the windows,
he felt the urgency of his
hard dick under the sheets,
and he masturbated into
the towel that he withdrew
oh so quietly from the head
of his bed, and, after
he came, he returned the
towel to its position where
it dried before morning.
he always wondered if his
towel was subsequently examined
by someone on the staff
for evidence
of masturbatory activity.
but, if it was, he was
never told about it.
when released from the
psychiatric hospital,
the sexy young man
for months and months
maintained his habit
of silent of so
very very silent masturbatory
activity. then, one night,
all alone in his own little
apartment, he decided
to groan and grunt and howl
as much as possible during
the whole procedure — just
be as theatric as possible.
and so he writhed and
moaned and groaned and grunted
naked sweaty on his back
on the bed tugging with
great force and zest and zeal on
his great big smooth hard cock,
shaking the bed, rattling
the mattress and when
he spurted cum, he
howled like a wolf.
then, quiet again,
he lay there smiling
with such a silly grin
on his handsome face,
he felt almost sheepish.
“baaaaa” he said
softly, and then he
burst into sweet
gentle throaty laughter.
“baaa baaa baaa”
he said again. and then,
he giggled so
charmingly, it was
almost as though
he had never actually
been sick,
but, if he had been sick
(and ok, yeah, he
most certainly was), well,
those days were gone,
and, now, relaxed and
beautiful naked sweaty
on the soft
white sheets, wiggling
his toes, he
was quite sure those
days were behind him,
and that none of it would
ever happen again.





two bits

i am allowed to read stuff written by rabid heterosexuals,
fervent homosexuals, smug bisexuals, preoperative transsexuals.
i am allowed to read stuff written by anarchists, socialists,
republicans, democrats, the apoliticals of the world.
i am allowed to read stuff written by folks who don’t really care
about anything, who are just drifting by, miserable, wondering
why they are alive and what to do about it.
i am allowed to read stuff written by drug addicts and alcoholics
and mental patients.
i am allowed to read stuff written by folks who are so
excited and happy and proud to be alive it makes me
wonder how anybody can feel that good.
i am allowed to read stuff written by men who think that
certain 13-yr-old boys are incredibly luscious.
i am allowed to read stuff by people with PhDs and stuff
by people who dropped out of high school.
i am allowed to read stuff that makes me mad and stuff that
makes me glad and stuff that makes me
horny and stuff that makes me depressed.
sometimes i feel sorta bad that i mostly just take it for granted
that i’m allowed to read anything i want.
i know things don’t have to work that way.
and in a lot of places they don’t.
but, well, right now i just feel like saying that
i’m glad i can read any damn thing that i want
to read, and just let it go at that. too much mushiness is
allowed, but not really encouraged.–
(“Two Bits” was first published by Chiron Review and has been republished here with the author’s permission.)

Carl Miller Daniels’ poems have appeared in Chiron Review; FUCK!; Nerve Cowboy; Pearl; Poetry Super Highway; Poetz; Slipstream; Strangeroad; Swell; Wormwood Review; Zen Baby; 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 (Chiron Review Press), and Museum Quality Orgasm(Future Tense Books). He’s a contributing editor at CommonLine and lives in ruggedly masculine Homerun, Virgina.