Biography of Jeffrey McDaniel
I am not Jeffrey McDaniel; I just simply adore the man and his way with words. I want to get his poetry out there for others to enjoy.
And he's from my city. =)
Jeffrey McDaniel's Works:
The Splinter Factory; Alibi School; The Forgiveness Parade
all are available at amazon.com
Jeffrey McDaniel Poems
The Quiet World
In an effort to get people to look into each other's eyes more, and also to appease the mutes, the government has decided
The Archipelago Of Kisses
We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't grow on trees, like in the old days. So where does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy, like being unleashed with a credit card
On the scales of desire, your absence weighs more than someone else’s presence, so I say no thanks to the woman who throws her girdle at my feet,
Renovating The Womb
Dear Mom, thanks for giving birth to me and not having an abortion.2% of my time on Earth has been spent inside your body- more than all my girlfriends combined.
The Biology Of Numbers
Once I dated a woman I only liked 43%. So I only listened to 43% of what she said. Only told the truth 43% of the time. And only kissed with 43% of my lips.
Where Babies Come From
For my eighth birthday I got a toy train set my father helped assemble.
A boy asks his father to spiral a football over a tree to arch it, so the ball will arrive an instant before the child. The child dives. tendons extended, heart bucking
The Benjamin Franklin Of Monogamy
Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice the ring that's landed on your finger, a massive insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end
My pal, Jake, majored in corruption. His final exam: a girl from the Midwest, three weeks to dismantle eighteen years
Hey you, dragging the halo- how about a holiday in the islands of grief? Tongue is the word I wish to have with you.
During my formative years, my mother had this annoying habit of taking me into shoe stores and forgetting all about me.
Letter To The Woman Who Stopped Writing ...
I wanted you to be the first to know - Harper & Row has agreed to publish my collected letters to you. The tentative title is Exorcist in the Gym of Futility.
On the red-eye from Seattle, a two year-old in the seat behind me screeches his little guts out. Instead of dreaming
The sinks dishes are the sinks problem as I ooh and aah at the complexity of balance implicit to keep the structure: eight glasses, thirteen bowls, a valley of forks, intact, while I run
I want to locate a bit of you, cradle it,
say: this, there is no word for this.
But they will. They who name everything
will define our actions
as we auction our bodies off to sleep.
In our single dram we'd compose
a manifesto on the irregularity of scars.