Jeffrey McDaniel

Rookie (1967 / Philadelphia, Pennsylvania)

Jeffrey McDaniel Poems

1. Where Babies Come From 7/14/2005
2. When A Man Hasn'T Been Kissed 2/14/2008
3. The Secret 2/14/2008
4. The Quiet World 7/14/2005
5. The Offer 7/14/2005
6. The Obvious 2/14/2008
7. The Jerk 2/14/2008
8. The Jeffrey Mcdaniel Show 2/14/2008
9. The Forgiveness Parade 2/14/2008
10. The Day It Rained Splinters 2/14/2008
11. The Boy Inside The Turtle 7/14/2005
12. The Biology Of Numbers 7/14/2005
13. The Benjamin Franklin Of Monogamy 7/14/2005
14. The Archipelago Of Kisses 7/14/2005
15. Technology 7/14/2005
16. Survivor's Glee 2/14/2008
17. Renovating The Womb 7/14/2005
18. Objectivity 2/14/2008
19. Meeropol 2/14/2008
20. Mannequin Complex 7/14/2005
21. Letter To The Woman Who Stopped Writing Me Back 2/14/2008
22. Hunting For Cherubs 2/14/2008
23. Friends And High Places 7/14/2005
24. For The Artist Who Paints My Balls Fifty Shades Of Blue 2/14/2008
25. First Person Omniscient 2/14/2008
26. Ethel's Lament (Ethel Rosenberg) 2/14/2008
27. Disasterology 2/14/2008
28. Day 29, Where The Self Divides 2/14/2008
29. Boss Of The Nethers 2/14/2008
30. Boner Etiquette 2/14/2008
31. Arrivederci Lipstick 2/14/2008
32. Alibi School 7/14/2005
33. Air Empathy 2/14/2008
34. Absence 7/14/2005
35. 1977 2/14/2008
36. 1975 2/14/2008
Best Poem of Jeffrey McDaniel

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
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn't respond,
I know she's used up all her words,
so I slowly ...

Read the full of The Quiet World

The Offer

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.

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