alarmist

suddenly it is night, and yet we continue
to deny that the swift sure certainty
of our own demise is at hand.
galaxies glitter in the darkness,
crickets chirp and twitter under
the dank mist beneath the
rotting mulch of the best gardens
in the best parts of town.
99.9 percent of all species that
ever lived are now extinct. and
yet we continue to think this
means nothing to us. we need
to think this means nothing
to us. we want to think
this means nothing to us.
**
up in his room, alone in the
dark, the sexiest most scrumptious
long-legged broad-shouldered smooth-backed
tiny-nippled big-dicked teenage boy
you could ever imagine quietly
beats off underneath the covers.
the spermy mess of his own cum
soon covers his fingers, and,
all at once, the whole process is
so beautiful to him that
he breaks into tears, lying
naked and spermy and clammy-hot under the
covers in his dark room,
the crickets chirping outside
his window, galaxies spinning
and whirling millions of
miles away.
**
yes, suddenly it
is night, and we are truly frightened.
the only thing that makes sense
is temporary and fleeting pleasure.
yet, can 30 years of pleasure
be construed as equaling nothing
of importance? can 30 years of
pleasure be considered to
be a bad thing? all leads
to nothing, anyway. the
demise will happen. nothing
we can do or think about
will stop it.
why not try not to think
about it? why not
give yourself over to absolute
pleasure, swim the deep waters
of the sins of the flesh?
another drink, perhaps.
or two, or three.
or 8.
**
but, alas, now,
your mission, should you
decide to accept it,
is over. oh yes, quite suddenly it
is night, the crickets
have stopped chirping, and
the mulch around those fancy
hybridized roses is
now festering with mildew,
only just beginning to make
friends with
the roots.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #85, Winter 2008. And it also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in March 2018.)