Announcement--
These days I'm having more fun at my newTumbl blog than I'm having here at my blogspot blog. So I'll be posting here less frequently than I did before. I do hope you'll enjoy what I've already posted here, and also hope you'll be visiting my newTumbl blog, and enjoying your visits there. newTumbl is lots of fun! Reminder--
Here's the link to my newTumbl blog--
https://cmd2019.newtumbl.com/
But you won't be able to see everything on my newTumbl blog unless you have a newTumbl blog 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 blog.
Hope you'll decide to set up your own newTumbl blog if you don't already have one. Like I said, newTumbl is lots of fun!
Friday, July 31, 2020
Thursday, July 30, 2020
Dick Cavett
I miss your gentle smarminess your wry
banter glib but empathetic the promise
of your large shapely sophisticated cock
bulging ever so lightly against the excellent fit
of well-tailored trousers.
Where have you gone, Dick
my boy my late-night fantasy
Oh I'll bet you'd have been
surprised to know the
things I did to my naked self
while I watched you smoothly slide your
way into the not-too-private-parts of the
lives of your guests, your voice warm, clear,
the hint of smugness in it a product of
your extensive education a palpable
presence, a controlled resonance,
kept in check, politely, correctly,
the overall effect of your lovely voice
your finely honed masculine voice
rising and falling with witty musicality, you
night-time crooner you,
your demeanor so smooth
and unruffleable that you'd
have probably even known just the
right thing to say to me,
doing things to my naked self
in my dark room, oh I'll bet
you'd have known exactly what to
say at the exact moment I
creamed into my pungent towel,
and you'd have said it
with just the right inflection,
and given the moment, the touch of dignity
that it seemed to deserve.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Chiron Review, Vol XII, issue #3, Autumn 1993.)
I miss your gentle smarminess your wry
banter glib but empathetic the promise
of your large shapely sophisticated cock
bulging ever so lightly against the excellent fit
of well-tailored trousers.
Where have you gone, Dick
my boy my late-night fantasy
Oh I'll bet you'd have been
surprised to know the
things I did to my naked self
while I watched you smoothly slide your
way into the not-too-private-parts of the
lives of your guests, your voice warm, clear,
the hint of smugness in it a product of
your extensive education a palpable
presence, a controlled resonance,
kept in check, politely, correctly,
the overall effect of your lovely voice
your finely honed masculine voice
rising and falling with witty musicality, you
night-time crooner you,
your demeanor so smooth
and unruffleable that you'd
have probably even known just the
right thing to say to me,
doing things to my naked self
in my dark room, oh I'll bet
you'd have known exactly what to
say at the exact moment I
creamed into my pungent towel,
and you'd have said it
with just the right inflection,
and given the moment, the touch of dignity
that it seemed to deserve.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Chiron Review, Vol XII, issue #3, Autumn 1993.)
Wednesday, July 29, 2020
Tuesday, July 28, 2020
dead mice in the art class
"we are going to take the
dead mouse
and dip it into paint
and print with it"
says the instructor,
a willowy blond young
man with tight pants
and broad shoulders and
otherwise hyper-sexual
features.
"we are using the mouse
because I am interested
in your exploring your
natural feelings of revulsion
toward certain things
and perhaps mastering
them."
"The only
colors you may use when
you dip your mice are black
and blue," he says. "Then you
press your paint-dipped mouse
onto the paper once or twice
or as many times as you
like." I am outraged. My
artistic freedom is being
constrained. Two colors!
One of them not really a color!
One of them, in fact, the very negation of
color. He hands me my
mouse. His fingertips brush
mine and linger a few seconds.
"You can use different shades
of blue," he says to me, and to
the class as a whole.
We all seem appeased. My mouse
stinks. It has the smell of
rot. Students are pluckily
picking up their mice and dipping
them and pressing them onto
paper. The smell
is ghastly.
"Do you find all this disgusting?"
the instructor asks, hopefully.
I actually see a maggot crawl out
of my mouse
and leave an intriguing trail
as it crawls across my paper.
I title my picture
"Accidental Art"
and get a big fat A.
The instructor seems
ecstatic at what a good job
I did the instructor seems
ecstatic at what a good
job everyone did, except for
the one or two who wouldn't
touch the dead mice.
He gave them rubber mice
though, started their
grade at C, and subtracted from
there accordingly.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Slipstream, issue 16, 1996.)
"we are going to take the
dead mouse
and dip it into paint
and print with it"
says the instructor,
a willowy blond young
man with tight pants
and broad shoulders and
otherwise hyper-sexual
features.
"we are using the mouse
because I am interested
in your exploring your
natural feelings of revulsion
toward certain things
and perhaps mastering
them."
"The only
colors you may use when
you dip your mice are black
and blue," he says. "Then you
press your paint-dipped mouse
onto the paper once or twice
or as many times as you
like." I am outraged. My
artistic freedom is being
constrained. Two colors!
One of them not really a color!
One of them, in fact, the very negation of
color. He hands me my
mouse. His fingertips brush
mine and linger a few seconds.
"You can use different shades
of blue," he says to me, and to
the class as a whole.
We all seem appeased. My mouse
stinks. It has the smell of
rot. Students are pluckily
picking up their mice and dipping
them and pressing them onto
paper. The smell
is ghastly.
"Do you find all this disgusting?"
the instructor asks, hopefully.
I actually see a maggot crawl out
of my mouse
and leave an intriguing trail
as it crawls across my paper.
I title my picture
"Accidental Art"
and get a big fat A.
The instructor seems
ecstatic at what a good job
I did the instructor seems
ecstatic at what a good
job everyone did, except for
the one or two who wouldn't
touch the dead mice.
He gave them rubber mice
though, started their
grade at C, and subtracted from
there accordingly.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Slipstream, issue 16, 1996.)
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