that word

the fire and ice of love and desire
may be simplified by the term "addiction" but
that seems unfair and dry and clinical.
love and desire may not, or
should not, be simplified
so easily and glibly. the sexy naked young
man lying on his back in the middle
of a sunny meadow tugging on his
big smooth cock while the rays
of the sun caress and love
and heat him up is not merely
"addicted" to solitary sex in
the sunshine. he is enveloped
by everything about the moment,
the sensation of his dick
responding to his fingers on it,
the sensation of the sunshine
on his nipples and navel
and balls and knees and toes.
he is enveloped, caught up in
it all, in everything about
everything about it.
to reduce all this
to an "addiction" of some
sort is disingenuous, to
say the least. to what
is this sexy naked young
man "addicted"?  being naked?
masturbating? the feel of
the sunshine on his naked
skin? the feel of the
meadowgrass on his butt?
or is it, perhaps,
that his so-called "addiction"
is to complete and utter
oneness with everything,
sex, nature, sun, meadow,
heat on skin, sunlight in eyes,
texture of dick skin, texture
of finger skin against dick
skin, exquisiteness of
having balls pulled up
tight and greedy
against body instead
of dangling half-interested
and lazy?  no. this all
goes well beyond the
application of the
term "addiction" -- even
though he does this, all
of it, alone, over
and over and over, dozens
of time a month during
the sizzling summer, when
his heart is hungry
for the taste of
the universe.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #88, Autumn 2009. It also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in March 2018.)