different paths, same destination

when the mire, murk, and fog oozes out of the sky
and seeps into every micro-millimeter of his skin,
including that slightly ragged stuff right at
the edges of his big blocky toe nails,
he waxes nostalgic, undresses, observes
the reflection of his big sexy nicely-honed body in the
surface of the dark water. he likes the
night, being out here naked amongst the
night sounds and the fog chill. and he likes
it the best when the moon is full, which
it most certainly is tonight. he inhales the
darkness that encircles both himself,
and the full distant white-hot moon.
the thought that he might really be
a werewolf excites him. his dick gets hard.
his nipples tingle. the tight curly hair
that covers his perineum gets moist and oily with
sweat. he walks naked in the forest, shivering,
hot, alive, eager, sad. he thinks tonight
he might find another who is similar to
himself, and who is in a circumstance similar
to his own. if he found such a
creature, the two of them would copulate like
wild beasts on the dry leaves, their skin
scratched and blotchy with the encounter
of serrated leaf tips and scratchy fallen
twigs. he sits down on a smooth flat
rock, waits, jerks off, spurts his cum
off to the side and smells it as it
dribbles oozy and slow down the cool
night-darkened rockface. the moon is relentless,
shining down on him, turning his sexiness
blue and textured and alarming in the night.
later, he walks back to the pond,
finds his clothes, dresses, goes on
back home to his
astonishingly tidy little
apartment: a quiet place, where
nothing much ever really happens. it is
then that he discovers the muddy
footprints on the carpet, human,
but not quite. caressing happens,
as if from a shadow in the only dark corner.
he's confused, counts the sleep he gets, and
the dreams that he has. also, in the
morning, when he wakes, he has
a bite mark on his shoulder; it
doesn't look human, but close.
there's a memory of alcohol
somewhere in there, and when
the circuit breaker snaps itself
on, the cum he spurts
smells different, and kind
of like a wet furry dog. not
only that, there's a lot
of hair in the bathtub, black,
and matted against the drain.
his memory, normally so reliable,
needs a good talking to, and
a box of oatmeal lies ruined on the floor.
as for them --
the great "out there" --
the next time there's a full moon,
mosquitos are gonna be the least
of their problem.  he grabs
a handful of halloween candy
and eats it, "devours" is more
like it -- and even when
pieces of it fall wet, orange, gooey, and
sticky onto his chest and
into his pubic hair, he still
refuses to put on his goddamn
clothes. "clothes are for
the civilians" he says, into
the wall-to-wall carpet
of his ironic little existence.

--Carl Miller Daniels (2005)