butter or margarine

in the squiggle brigade of death-centric studies,
the urgency of flippancy cannot be dismissed.
the detritus of destruction is
not to be confused with the pleasure of procreation.
nothing is to be confused with anything,
even though everything is clearly confusing.
all one has to do is admit the truth
of the error. it's not that difficult,
when faced with all kinds of irrefutable evidence
to the correctness of judgement, whether
impaired, or not.
one sloshes around and does the
best one can, or not, depending
on various attitudinal and environmental
factors.
for a sexy naked big-dicked young man,
the urgency of orgasm,
the need to share his big hard
thick dick with an appreciative audience,
can be quite the motivator.
a sexy naked big-dicked young man
loves to spurt cum, loves
the near-vicious electro-jolt of
orgasm, and,
sometimes,
sharing the experience with
another sexy naked big-dicked young man
makes the experience even hotter,
sexier, and more vibrant. also,
there's the question of loneliness,
which has never been satisfactorily
resolved. is the best orgasm
to be had when one is alone,
or when one is in the company of company?
these are difficult
questionalities, the
uncertainty and muddiness
of perfect black-n-white answers,
a constant befuddlement,
a red poppy on a plain
of green foliage,
the click of the crickets
at midnight,
the sky a perfect wash
of yellow-green stars.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Saline, published by Interior Noise Press in 2014.)