Saturday, November 30, 2019

twice that many

squash for dinner, and squash for lunch.
squash squash squash.
harbinger of autumn.
prelude to halloween.
taste buds awash in their softness, their delicate stringiness.
gentle fibres caressing tongue and
insides of cheeks and back of
soft pink throat. thus sits
the sexy gentle country boy in
his seat at the kitchen table
eating the squash that he
has prepared for himself
from his own garden
out behind the old house
in which he has sequestered himself
for the better part of a year.
dropped out of college.
dropped out of as much of life as possible.
lucky to have this house, and this land,
left to him by loving
grandmother in
her will at just about
the time he made the decision to
drop out of
college and drop out of life and, well,
drop out of just about everything for a while.
sitting at his little table all alone
eating a variety of squash for dinner,
decisions he's made,
decisions he's about to make,
decisions he'll never make because
he's just so
entrenched here,
all alone,
he rises from the table,
the sexy gentle country boy is naked
as usual,
he spends as much time as
possible naked,
he's really quite beautiful,
tousled blond hair and
tanned all over
and lean muscles under tight
his big thick dick
hanging over his nice set of balls.
he goes to the sink
and washes the plate and
the pans he used to prepare
the squash.
there is squash
skin on the countertops,
squash skin at the edge of the sink.
the squash skin is knobby and multi-colored.
he likes the way it
just lies there
waits for him to
do something about it,
which he most certainly will,
when the spirit moves him,
when the time just seems

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018. The poem first appeared in Carnival Magazine, Volume 1, January 2012.)

Tuesday, November 26, 2019

frot frot spurt spurt
swinging -- giggles
wired dick
Another blog of mine is this one at newTumbl--

But you won't be able to see everything on my newTumbl blog unless you have a newTumbl account of your own. In general, you'll only be able to see the "G-rated" stuff, and not any of the "X-rated" stuff on my newTumbl blog, if you don't have your own newTumbl account.
The Collector

Tonight, I feel life's downward spiral
reversing.  I've waited years
for something like this.  No doubt they were smiling
when they died, returning from another win,
the ice cream truck speeding from the bridge's curve
to smash the side of the bus. Three
stars of the football team, gone.
Monday will fill the halls with pool-eyed girls,
teachers thumbing yearbooks, a stupid throng
sniffling beside lockers bedecked
with Polaroids and jersey numbers.
But all that's hours away.
Tonight is mine.

After three, I leave my room.
I abandon these comic books and stamps;
these butterflies and beetles soaked with alcohol.
I walk the darkest avenues of this worthless town.
Hymns from crickets: they know what's happened.
It's the only sound as I head for the funeral home,
gripping the brick wrapped in the towel
I used to wipe my stomach after I worked off
my dreams of them.  When I'm there
I throw it through the window; crawl inside.
Slowly, my eyes adjust
and their beautiful shapes solidify.  They're spread
on tables lined with velvet
so smooth, touching it would feel like
touching a beating heart.  They've been stitched
like the opponent's bullpup mascot, that dummy
they beat and burned at yesterday's pep rally.
The street light draws haloes
against faces that would have graduated this May.
Now, they're precise and still
as butterflies I pin behind glass in my room.
They're only a little dead.

I ask who's first, remembering strides
between yesterday's classes, jeans tight
against their asses like peelings on ripe globes of fruit.
Their skins still smell like the field's chalked grass;
like soap flakes from the after-game shower.
One at a time, I slide against them.
Rick's shoulders swell beneath his thin
cotton shirt, muscles solid as unripe apples.
Last week, I spied through binoculars,
his head tilting toward the car window as his girlfriend
left marks on his neck.  Even in tonight's dark
the violet hints still show.  I move my mouth
from bruise to bruise, whispering
love, love on the skin.  When finished   

I switch tables.  This linebacker's body
that made Dave famous: here,
in the palms of my hands.  Between his legs
he is soft and round, like the finger he jammed
in the hollow of my throat to shut off my yell
when he hammered me in the stomach last March.
I push myself into him,
easy as the pin into insect, holding him close
until I'm through.  Only the quarterback
remains.  I delicately trace the curve of Kevin's cheek
with my tongue.  I hover over
his mouth like a moth against light.
My tongue catches on the blue stitches
that join his lips.  I let this moment
linger, the room falling away around us, then step back
to look at them.  This is the final memory
I will collect, the final kisses
that will unite us forever, their bodies filled
with the knowledge of my love.

--Scott Heim (This poem appears in the chapbook Saved from Drowning by Scott Heim, published by Chiron Review Press in 1993. The poem is posted here with the author's permission.)
sexy guy talks about magic while masturbating
Bat Colony, Illustration by Edward Steed (via
House on a River (also known as Old House I), Egon Schiele, 1915 (via

Ceramic works by Picasso (via

Sunday, November 24, 2019

Speculations about my young neighbor's sundays -- art by Theo Blaze


"We've just mastered the life of doing nothing, which when you think about it, may be the hardest thing of all to do."
--The Basketball Diaries by Jim Carroll
The Basketball Diaries by Jim Carroll

Here's one of my favorite passages from the book--

Tonight I just stuck
it out in bed, radared the scene and slipped into some
baggy jeans, a tee-shirt (stayed barefoot) and went out
and up. "Up" is my roof, and what I do is simply take
off all my clothes, stand around awhile, a totally naked
young boy, stare into the star machine and jerk myself
off. Is it strange? Maybe, but it's certainly the most beau-
tiful and exciting way of masturbating I've experienced
since I first began my steady practice of the art when
I was just turning twelve . . .
hot red-haired guy
1937 Delahaye

Early 1950s Chrysler

Alfa Romeo BAT

Saturday, November 23, 2019

Another blog of mine is this one at newTumbl--

But you won't be able to see everything on my newTumbl blog unless you have a newTumbl account of your own. In general, you'll only be able to see the "G-rated" stuff, and not any of the "X-rated" stuff on my newTumbl blog, if you don't have your own newTumbl account.

Friday, November 22, 2019

my trip out west

in the west, wide-open wallets are
quickly emptied
as tumble weeds roll merrily along
the sands.
there's nothing like the smell
of scrub juniper in the morning,
as my fossil-digging partner
and i eat our breakfast, and
ready ourselves for a day
of searching for fossils.
my fossil-digging partner is a moody
guy with a mustache, a big chest,
and no sex appeal.
after breakfast, he goes his
way, and i go mine.
we plan to report back to
the campsite at noon.
we roam the "badlands" --
looking for fossils, of mammals,
and of fish; near 10 a.m., my shirt
off, wearing shorts, the sky
so blue and the air so
dry and wonderfully warm,
i get horny and, in a sunny and
secluded crevice, i take off all
my clothes and lie down on
a big smooth rock and start
masturbating. i, unlike him,
am pretty good-looking, and blond,
24, lanky, and tan.
shortly after i cum, i see him
walk by on a ridge not too far
away; he makes like he doesn't
see me lying there. back at the campsite,
whether he saw me or not is
never discussed, ever.
he's a terse one, a creep,
actually, and i hate to think
of him skulking about, perhaps nearby,
as i spurt one of the best
loads of my life, out there
in the middle of the warm
blue and friendly western
so, generally i don't think
about that part. i just
remember the rest, subtract him
out of the picture entirely.
never saw him even once again after that
fossil-hunting trip. 2 weeks with him
was enough for the rest of my life.
the few fossils i found and kept,
i later gave to a local museum long long
ago. they seemed glad enough to
have them.
the only part of that trip i kept
was certain furtive memories,
the smell of juniper in the sunlight,
wind in the night, memories of
masturbating in the badlands,
such a good orgasm that time i can
still remember it, without
even really trying.
i really did hate him, though
subconsciously i may have flirted,
just a bit,
like the time we had to sleep in
the same bed at a relative of
his's house in Leavenworth, Kansas,
and when i was sure he was
asleep, i lay there on my
back beside him and
masturbated into a fistful
of tissues i'd grabbed from a
nearby table. he stirred once,
kind of twitched, but i don't
think he ever figured out
what was going on.
with his shirt off, he looked like
a big beefy lumberjack.
and i just wasn't into that. really.
he just wasn't my type. i preferred
lean and skinny, with a minimum
of body hair.  besides, he
was a sour surly grouch.  nice nipples,
though.  pink, as i recall.  and lots
of sand-colored fur all around.
basically, though, he was
a mean, ugly guy.  and actually,
i really wasn't interested in
him at all,
though he did have a nice voice --
deep, and well, you know, manly. and,
when he snored, sometimes i watched
his mustache hairs move atop his lip.
that was generally
early in the morning, when he was
still sound asleep, and i wasn't.
actually, i barely slept at
all that trip--barely
slept at all.

--Carl Miller Daniels (2007)
fucking, fun-size
the sweet smell of decay

some of us got together and decided to buy
an old mental hospital that we found in the woods.
it was in pretty bad shape.
some walls had collapsed.
there was water damage.
the forest had worked its way right into
the central lawn and up against the
main complex of buildings.
we contributed what we could.
a penny here, a nickel there.
it wasn't much of a down payment, but the
current owners didn't seem very set on the particulars.
we told them we'd get the rest of the money from the bank.
we told the bank we were going to turn
the place into a luxury hotel out there in the middle
of the wilderness with a five-star restaurant
and top-quality service.
the bank was most agreeable and gave
us the necessary funds.
i'm afraid some of us didn't work very hard to whip
the place into shape.
some of us spent most of the days just wandering
in the woods, looking at the signs of decay.
there was an old wall way out way away from
the main complex that didn't seem to be there for anything.
it was crumbly and big, and old vines and trees wriggled
all over it.
some of us spent a lot of time in our rooms, trying to
get things organized and livable.  ironically,
some of the rooms were already in really good
shape when we took over the place.
nice furniture, no mildew, good-looking carpets,
bathrooms immaculate and no rust stains,
those rooms went fast, there was kinda a stampede
on those rooms,
my old college roommate and i got one of those
rooms, he mostly wanted it for himself, but
decided he wasn't going to get rid of me
very easily, so he'd just accept the situation,
some of us tried to learn to cook, but
we weren't very good at it. some of
us spent a lot of time sweeping the hallways,
some of us really were good with hammers and
saws and sanders and power-tools and they
made a lot of progress. my old college
roommate was among that group,
i was kinda with the floor sweepers, kinda
with the guys who went out by themselves
and wandered in the woods on nice
days, sometimes one of us would run
into the other one and we'd take off
all our clothes and lie down beside
each other and we'd jerk off together,
talking admiringly, yet, with just a tinge
of bitterness, about the guys who were doing
the sawing and sanding and power-tool
using. then we'd get dressed and wander off
on our separate ways, and eventually
we'd end up back at the old mental
hospital. my old college roommate
was having less and less use for
me, he worked hard all day and
his muscles were getting bigger
and he was sore and cranky.
he was making noises that i should
do more work or move out. i kept out
of his way as much as possible,
and, in fact, i really did start doing
my work better, those hallways were
constantly clean and looked real darn good,
but i was still a little leery of him, and
for quite a few weeks i had developed
the habit of coming in late when he was already
asleep in his bed and watching
him sleep, occasionally he slept
on his back with just a sheet
over him and his big erect dick
lifted the sheet well above his
belly and it just kinda bounced
lightly with the pulse of his erection.
eventually the renovation was done.
we hired a really good chef and
a whole crew to run the restaurant.
guests began to come down the
old winding road through the woods and to
eat in the restaurant and to spend
the night in rooms in our old renovated
mental hospital. sometimes guests would
go out walking in the woods. sometimes
a solitary guest would go out alone,
and one afternoon a few of us
happened upon a guest all alone in the woods
and we asked him if he wanted to
take off all of his clothes and jerk off
with us and he said yes. he was
only 17 or 18 yrs old and he was
very very beautiful, with a really
big monstrous cock, and we all
paid quite a lot of attention to
him as he stripped and jerked off.
it was enjoyable, there in the
deep dark woods watching him
and each other jerking off,
although he was by far the
most fun to watch. he had
a great face and lots of muscles
and his fully erect cock was very thick and
probably at least 11 inches long,
maybe longer.
i think everybody came two or three
times that day. then we all got
dressed and went our different
ways and all arrived back at
the old mental hospital by separate
routes. the next day, the cute boy who had jerked
off with us left along with his parents.
the weeks went by. those who
sawed and sanded and
used power-tools called meetings
and told us we were making
a nice profit, that things were
going well, our duties became
more systematic, it was acknowledged, for instance,
in fact, my old college roommate said it quite
eloquently, that i was an excellent sweeper
of the halls, that i kept them really clean,
and that i should be assigned that duty
permanently. i flushed bright red
as he talked, and that night, when he
was asleep on his back, and i was watching
his big erect cock lift his nice white
sheet above his nice flat belly,
i pulled down the sheet very very carefully
and just as it cleared his thighs, he
opened his eyes, and he told me that if
i wanted it that bad, go ahead,
give him a nice slow handjob, and
that's what i did, he came all over his
belly and i wiped it off of him with a
nice warm soapy wash rag from our
bathroom, and then i rinsed his belly
with fresh water, and then i dried
his belly, and pulled the sheet
back over him and he went to sleep
in his bed and i went to sleep in my
bed, after first jerking myself off
as silently as possible, i don't think
my old college roommate heard
a thing.  weeks went by.
profits were up. we all had
food and a roof over our heads
and sometimes nobody did
hardly any work and in spite
of the fact that those who sawed
and sanded and used power-tools
held meetings and yelled at various
ones of us, it was noted that
sometimes the power-tool guys
didn't do all that much work themselves
on certain days, there was
general dissatisfaction from
the kitchen, the head chef quit,
and went to another job, and took
most of his staff with him,
there was a general feeling
of tension about the place,
the old mental hospital was
not attracting the customers
it once did, sometimes there
were days when there were
no guests at all, and some
of us fixed sandwiches for ourselves
and for everybody else, and sometimes
everybody had to fix their own
sandwiches, my old college
roommate started spending
a lot of time just laying about
the room and sometimes
he lay on his bed stark naked
and expected me to give
him handjobs without even
being asked to, i wasn't
liking him as much as i used
to, and sometimes i didn't
even come back to the room
at night, but lay near the old
wall way out in the woods,
listening to things move amongst
the fallen leaves in the darkness,
sometimes i took off all my
clothes and lay there spread
eagle on the leaves staring
up into the sky, there were
tears in my eyes, and as
the night wore on, i would
make growling sounds in
my throat to answer the
growling sounds i occasionally
heard around me, and then
i'd get dressed and go back
to the room and shower,
eventually my old college roommate
left the old mental hospital altogether,
and i had the room to myself,
for a period of time
there were no more guests at all
at the old mental hospital,
except one night the 17-or-18
yr-old guy who had jerked off
with us in the woods came back
and some of us ended up jerking
off with him in the old shock-therapy
room while we smeared jergens
body lotion all over him,
he left that same night,
his eyes were wild and
the tip of his tongue was
between his lips, eventually
there were only a few of us left in
the old mental hospital in the woods,
we ate coldcuts and bread,
one of the power-tool guys
was evidently pretty rich and a little off his
rocker, and he kept on
funding the place, but there
were no extravagances, it
was pretty basic, out there
in the woods. sometimes,
growling in the night alone
in my room, i heard others
growling, too, sometimes
i'd creep outside the door
of somebody i heard growling,
and then i'd try the doorknob,
generally it wouldn't open,
but sometimes it would,
and i'd go on in, and we'd
just sit down together, and
we'd talk about what
was going to happen next,
and we wouldn't have a clue,
we'd say we missed the good
ole days when there were
lots of guests and the restaurant
was still operating, and i'd confess
that i felt like everything was
going to hell, we were all
in one big long tailspin that
we were never going to get out
of, often the guy whose room i
happened to be in at the moment
would agree, and then sometimes
we'd just lay there not saying
a word, too tired to lift a finger,
too tired for much of anything,
eventually the power-tool guy
with the money moved out,
winter was coming, food
was running low, but
we stayed on anyway,
and every now and then,
guests still came, not
of the quality we were used to,
and not in the numbers we'd
once grown to expect,
but we were constantly surprised
by what people were looking for
out there in the middle of
the woods, our old mental
hospital looming grey and sinister
there in the clearing,
exactly what they are looking for
has never been readily apparent
to any of us, certainly not to me
anyway, and they tolerate questionable conditions
far better than i'd have
ever expected.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018. The poem first appeared in my book Shy Boys at Home, published by Chiron Review Press in 1999. It also appeared in The Commonline Journal, June 12, 2015.)
point of view
jerking each other off while writhing with pleasure
eyes nipples lips DICK balls umm nipples
details details

lick the salt off the saltines
wipe the sugar off the sugar cookies
wash the pepper off the pepper-steak

take it plain
take it unadorned
take it unheated, without the ice cream

bare bones

greg  the gymnast who lives next door
wears clothes
unless he stands in front of his
bedroom window
naked as the purple head of his
big stiff cock

he suspects I can see him from my
own bedroom window
I suspect

he closes the blinds tho
just before he gets really
involved in touching himself
all over
but I get to see the nipple-action
belly-button prodding

then he closes the blinds
a mona lisa grin on
his great-looking lips,
+ he finishes whatever he's doing to
himself in there

lick the salt off the saltines
wipe the sugar off the sugar cookies
bay at the moon

has anyone ever died from longing

a knock on his door
would help  perhaps
he's just waiting for my

lick the wall
lick off the paint
lick off the plaster

another long night for me in store it seems

another saltine
without the salt
another sugar cookie without the sugar

the sound of knock knock knock
on his door
without the knock knock knock

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Shy Boys at Home, published by Chiron Review Press in 1999.)

Various images, including seven sets of Simon Rex -- the Simon Rex images are low quality, but full of good memories anyway

Various sexy images, including one of a cute guy holding a beer bottle over his genitals

Tacita Dean, Majesty, 2006 (via