just top-off the tank

and the miracle of carbon combustion is
all those little explosions--hundreds
of thousands of them--millions of
little explosions every single day,
all those spark plugs sparking and
sparking and sparking.
**
makes one think of pop corn, but
smellier, in a not-great-smell
kind of way.
**
and of course no butter's allowed in their
cars, but
later, tonight, in the kitchen, lots of it.
**
when all the cute half-naked young
men are riding around in their
sexy cars, and all those spark plugs
are sparking away, most of the time
those cute half-naked young men
aren't really thinking about
all those tiny little explosions--
no one here's exactly
enviro-centric, are they? no
high-carbon exhaust worries cross their
handsome brows. food yes. sex yes. money
yes. but mostly,
those cute half-naked
young men just ride and
ride and ride--their big dicks
jouncing hot and turgid between
their young muscular thighs--
and those cute half-naked young men
ride around thinking about
their own dicks and the possibility
of getting their own dicks
sexily stimulated as they ride
around in their sexy cars, all those
little spark plugs sparking
and sparking and sparking,
under those smooth shiny hoods --
later,
when a whole shelf of dark clouds forms
on the horizon, the thought of rain
makes these cute half-naked
young men wince, but,
once they secure the windows, everything's
perfectly ok. the smell of rain
on the hot pavement, is eerily reminiscent of the subtle
aroma of butter, without really thinking
about it too much, but it's
there; hence, still later,
in all the kitchens,
all that butter flowing,
all that butter smooth and soft
and yellow, fingers
restless as spermatazoa.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Zygote in my Coffee, Issue #101, February 2008.)