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. =) more »
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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.
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
Where Babies Come From
For my eighth birthday I got a toy train set my father helped assemble.
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
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.
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.
On the red-eye from Seattle, a two year-old in the seat behind me screeches his little guts out. Instead of dreaming
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
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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 ...