Oh, Jeffrey McDaniel!
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Friday, September 14, 2012
Dinnertime
The Voice: Don’t put off another poem,
You've got to stop doing that, its a bad habit.
This .................... Here.................... is your time.
“....................”
Look.
Look at it.
The Girl in the House: But, the house is on fire.
The Voice: Sorry?
The Girl in the House: The house is on fire.
And sure enough flames licked the wooden floor boards and newspapers on table tops curled at the corners and everything glowed.
The Girl in the House: Never mind though, dinner is almost ready.
Here, take my cheekbones. You can use them to eat.
She took her little finger and tucked it under the skin at her eye; under the dark circles that go purple when you are tired. She wiggled her finger and made room for another one and she invited The Voice to put their finger in the opening to help her stretch it and as the skin sagged you could see the muscles and bones sitting underneath. She didn’t have to break anything, she must have performed this process before, and the bone sucked out of its socket, cleanly. She repeated the process on the otherside and then handed them over, the cheekbones, to eat with.
The house was on fire, but dinner was ready and she had gone to so much trouble.
The Girl in the House: Dig in!
You've got to stop doing that, its a bad habit.
This .................... Here.................... is your time.
“....................”
Look.
Look at it.
The Girl in the House: But, the house is on fire.
The Voice: Sorry?
The Girl in the House: The house is on fire.
And sure enough flames licked the wooden floor boards and newspapers on table tops curled at the corners and everything glowed.
The Girl in the House: Never mind though, dinner is almost ready.
Here, take my cheekbones. You can use them to eat.
She took her little finger and tucked it under the skin at her eye; under the dark circles that go purple when you are tired. She wiggled her finger and made room for another one and she invited The Voice to put their finger in the opening to help her stretch it and as the skin sagged you could see the muscles and bones sitting underneath. She didn’t have to break anything, she must have performed this process before, and the bone sucked out of its socket, cleanly. She repeated the process on the otherside and then handed them over, the cheekbones, to eat with.
The house was on fire, but dinner was ready and she had gone to so much trouble.
The Girl in the House: Dig in!
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Sunday, November 13, 2011
A Good Conversation
HIM: Discreet, is one thing I am not.
ME: Really? You strike me as a tactful person.
HIM: Noooo, I kiss and tell.
ME: Really? You strike me as a tactful person.
HIM: Noooo, I kiss and tell.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
INCREDIBLE POEM
In The Surgical Theatre
By Dana Levin
In the moment between
the old heart and the new
two angels gather at the empty chest.
The doctors flow over them as winds, as blurs, unnoticed but as currents
around this body, the flesh of the chest peeled back
as petals, revealing
a hole.
In it
the layers are fluttering—the back muscle, the bone, the chrome
of the table,
the tiled floor with its spatters of blood—
—fluttering as veils over the solid,
fluttering—
The angels, gathering. Small, and untroubled, perched quietly
on the rib-cage, its cupped hands trying
to keep in.
Around them the hands of the doctors,
hurrying—white flaps,
white wings—
the clicks and whirrs of the lung machine…
Do you want it to be stars, do you want it to be a hole to heaven,
clean and round—
Do you want their hands, dipping and dipping, flesh sticking like jelly
to the tips of their gloves—
Hovering at the edge of this
spot-lit stage,
loathe to enter, loathe to leave, is it terror,
fascination,
the angels too occupied to turn their gaze to you?
Go down,
go in.
The angels perch on either side of the hole like handles
round a grail.
The bleeding tissues part, underneath the solid shimmers
black, like a pool.
The lights above the table enter and extinguish,
the light of your face
enters,
is extinguished,
is this why you’ve come? The frigid cauldron
that is life without a heart?
I know,
I'm tired of the battle too, the visible and invisible clashing together,
the hands with the scalpels
flashing and glinting like flags and standards,
fighting,
fighting to the death—
When they cut you down the middle you fled.
The angels descended.
You came up here with me,
with the voiceless
thousands at the edge of the curtain, hearts beating
with ambivalence.
Do you know if you want it? Is that jumble of spit and bone
so worth it
that you would go down again and be
a body
raging with loss, each beat of the heart
like the strike of a hammer,
spiking the nails in, to feel, to feel—
I learned this from you, Father, all my life
I've felt your resign to the hurt
of living,
so I came up here, to the scaffolding above
the surgical theatre
to watch you decide.
Can you go on with this mortal vision? To the sword rearing up now
in orange fire, the angels turning
to face you poised at the hole's
brink, their eyes in flames, in sprays of blood
their wings beating
against the steel wedge prying open the rib cage, is it
for you? Are they protecting
you?
But you bend down, you look in, you dip in
a finger, Father,
you bring it to your mouth and you taste it,
and I can feel the cold that is black on my tongue, it is bitter,
it is numbing,
snuffing the heart out, the heat,
the light,
and when will they lift the new heart like a lamp—
and will you wait—
the doctors pausing with their knives uplifted, the rush of wings
stirring a wind—
This poem gives me chills.
By Dana Levin
In the moment between
the old heart and the new
two angels gather at the empty chest.
The doctors flow over them as winds, as blurs, unnoticed but as currents
around this body, the flesh of the chest peeled back
as petals, revealing
a hole.
In it
the layers are fluttering—the back muscle, the bone, the chrome
of the table,
the tiled floor with its spatters of blood—
—fluttering as veils over the solid,
fluttering—
The angels, gathering. Small, and untroubled, perched quietly
on the rib-cage, its cupped hands trying
to keep in.
Around them the hands of the doctors,
hurrying—white flaps,
white wings—
the clicks and whirrs of the lung machine…
Do you want it to be stars, do you want it to be a hole to heaven,
clean and round—
Do you want their hands, dipping and dipping, flesh sticking like jelly
to the tips of their gloves—
Hovering at the edge of this
spot-lit stage,
loathe to enter, loathe to leave, is it terror,
fascination,
the angels too occupied to turn their gaze to you?
Go down,
go in.
The angels perch on either side of the hole like handles
round a grail.
The bleeding tissues part, underneath the solid shimmers
black, like a pool.
The lights above the table enter and extinguish,
the light of your face
enters,
is extinguished,
is this why you’ve come? The frigid cauldron
that is life without a heart?
I know,
I'm tired of the battle too, the visible and invisible clashing together,
the hands with the scalpels
flashing and glinting like flags and standards,
fighting,
fighting to the death—
When they cut you down the middle you fled.
The angels descended.
You came up here with me,
with the voiceless
thousands at the edge of the curtain, hearts beating
with ambivalence.
Do you know if you want it? Is that jumble of spit and bone
so worth it
that you would go down again and be
a body
raging with loss, each beat of the heart
like the strike of a hammer,
spiking the nails in, to feel, to feel—
I learned this from you, Father, all my life
I've felt your resign to the hurt
of living,
so I came up here, to the scaffolding above
the surgical theatre
to watch you decide.
Can you go on with this mortal vision? To the sword rearing up now
in orange fire, the angels turning
to face you poised at the hole's
brink, their eyes in flames, in sprays of blood
their wings beating
against the steel wedge prying open the rib cage, is it
for you? Are they protecting
you?
But you bend down, you look in, you dip in
a finger, Father,
you bring it to your mouth and you taste it,
and I can feel the cold that is black on my tongue, it is bitter,
it is numbing,
snuffing the heart out, the heat,
the light,
and when will they lift the new heart like a lamp—
and will you wait—
the doctors pausing with their knives uplifted, the rush of wings
stirring a wind—
This poem gives me chills.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Looting the Party (a work in progress)
Just a snap shot of a piece I'm working on, currently switching between writing it as a dialogue and as a prose piece. Stay tuned.
MAN: When she tells him she loves him, her face will start to crumble/ (gleeful expression)
WOMAN: Crumble? (Distressed)
MAN: he walks up to her and grabs her jaw Her chin will pinch, like yours is now and the skin will dimple. he continues to hold her face, very close to his It will look as if someone has taken a chisel to her face.
WOMAN: Blood? I don’t like blood! Will it be messy?
MAN: Everything will cave in; her cheekbones will turn to dust. Her mouth will fill with the crumbled remains of her face. She’ll hate the taste and spit it out. All of her head will go with it. Take the nose as a token if you like? They tend to stay in one piece.
WOMAN: This is when I strike?
MAN: Yes. Pull off rings. Take all the jewelry. If you struggle, suck them off the fingers, or take butter from the dining tables and lather it on their hands, this works very well. Check the undergarments for money; you never know if they are the type that hides things. Take anything you deem to be of value.
WOMAN: Will there be others, working? Where do I put it all?
MAN: Don’t concern yourself with anyone else. The alter, pile all the booty there.
WOMAN: What about him? Will they all fall apart or is it just her? The one I target?
MAN: The party will continue. They’ll all be getting too drunk to notice. One will fall and then another. There will be plenty of work, you’ll be busy tonight.
MAN: When she tells him she loves him, her face will start to crumble/ (gleeful expression)
WOMAN: Crumble? (Distressed)
MAN: he walks up to her and grabs her jaw Her chin will pinch, like yours is now and the skin will dimple. he continues to hold her face, very close to his It will look as if someone has taken a chisel to her face.
WOMAN: Blood? I don’t like blood! Will it be messy?
MAN: Everything will cave in; her cheekbones will turn to dust. Her mouth will fill with the crumbled remains of her face. She’ll hate the taste and spit it out. All of her head will go with it. Take the nose as a token if you like? They tend to stay in one piece.
WOMAN: This is when I strike?
MAN: Yes. Pull off rings. Take all the jewelry. If you struggle, suck them off the fingers, or take butter from the dining tables and lather it on their hands, this works very well. Check the undergarments for money; you never know if they are the type that hides things. Take anything you deem to be of value.
WOMAN: Will there be others, working? Where do I put it all?
MAN: Don’t concern yourself with anyone else. The alter, pile all the booty there.
WOMAN: What about him? Will they all fall apart or is it just her? The one I target?
MAN: The party will continue. They’ll all be getting too drunk to notice. One will fall and then another. There will be plenty of work, you’ll be busy tonight.
Quote
"Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure you are not, in fact just surrounded by assholes" - William Gibson
Monday, October 11, 2010
Christopher's Story
These are some very rough ideas for my story about Christopher.
Christopher is very good at games. He doesn't care if he wins or looses and that’s his secret. He just lets it happen and everything works in his favour.
Christopher mourns initiative.
Christopher thinks his voice should replace the woman’s voice on the tube saying “Please mind the gap”. His is so considerate, much more so than the lady.
When you go to sleep, Christopher sneaks into your room and takes very fine, very long rods and attaches them to the end of each of your eyebrows. He moves them up and down, up and down. This is to create pretty television snow in your dreams.
Christopher has an abnormal amount of chewing gum in his digestive tract. He was bullied at school and his is a terrible thing when you have a fondness for gum. This bully would often sneak up behind him and give him the most terrible fright and he would accidently swallow his gum, whole.
Christopher isn’t colour blind, but he pretends to be. Just because he can.
Christopher is very good at games. He doesn't care if he wins or looses and that’s his secret. He just lets it happen and everything works in his favour.
Christopher mourns initiative.
Christopher thinks his voice should replace the woman’s voice on the tube saying “Please mind the gap”. His is so considerate, much more so than the lady.
When you go to sleep, Christopher sneaks into your room and takes very fine, very long rods and attaches them to the end of each of your eyebrows. He moves them up and down, up and down. This is to create pretty television snow in your dreams.
Christopher has an abnormal amount of chewing gum in his digestive tract. He was bullied at school and his is a terrible thing when you have a fondness for gum. This bully would often sneak up behind him and give him the most terrible fright and he would accidently swallow his gum, whole.
Christopher isn’t colour blind, but he pretends to be. Just because he can.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
IF YOU HOLD THE BIRD TOO TIGHTLY, YOU’LL KILL IT.
- a collection of moments where the body and mind, sync.
EYE on the driveway, looking at the stars.
On the driveway, he said “It’s funny to kiss you”, she looked at him and a tear left her eye and took with it its blue colour. The blue ran down her face, thick syrup goo that dripped into a blob on the pavement. Then, with nothing left to keep it there, her eyeball popped out. Stark white and hollow like a ping pong ball it bounced down the driveway and onto the road. He watched on in amazement, waiting for her to respond, to say something, to be horrified. But instead, in the silence of his astonishment there came a rustling from the hollow of her eye. Out pushed a bird, perched on the bridge of her nose it shook dry its wet feathers and flew away.
From her.
From him.
The 24th year is a struggle. They say, and I suppose I say so too.
The clay hardens. Change is no longer slow and easy to ignore. It is abrupt, alarming and can make you late for work.
It happened at a party. I was chatting, standing in the round, laughing. Then, through my wine soaked vision, I saw him kiss another.
I said, ‘My face is caving in’ and those around me looked and quickly caught the falling pieces of my cheek in their palms. It was winter and everyone was covered in wool. My face was the crumbs on their sleeves.
They all peered at me.
“Where do you want me to put your...face?.... Harriet?” one said, holding the largest part of me.
“Maybe you shouldn’t say anything. You look very loose. How are we going to hold you together?”
“Does she need to sit down?”
“Is he still kissing her?” I said.
“Oh, Harriet! Is this what’s going to happen every time? Yes. Just let him go!”
Restless viewing.
It used to only happen occasionally and then it became more frequent. She would lie awake and check her phone and read and put the book down and toss and turn and do this over and over again.
While lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling, two fine rods attached to the end of each eyebrow would move up and down and up and down at a furious pace. The speed created a television snow that hovered over her brow and kept her awake all night long.
EYE on the driveway, looking at the stars.
On the driveway, he said “It’s funny to kiss you”, she looked at him and a tear left her eye and took with it its blue colour. The blue ran down her face, thick syrup goo that dripped into a blob on the pavement. Then, with nothing left to keep it there, her eyeball popped out. Stark white and hollow like a ping pong ball it bounced down the driveway and onto the road. He watched on in amazement, waiting for her to respond, to say something, to be horrified. But instead, in the silence of his astonishment there came a rustling from the hollow of her eye. Out pushed a bird, perched on the bridge of her nose it shook dry its wet feathers and flew away.
From her.
From him.
The 24th year is a struggle. They say, and I suppose I say so too.
The clay hardens. Change is no longer slow and easy to ignore. It is abrupt, alarming and can make you late for work.
It happened at a party. I was chatting, standing in the round, laughing. Then, through my wine soaked vision, I saw him kiss another.
I said, ‘My face is caving in’ and those around me looked and quickly caught the falling pieces of my cheek in their palms. It was winter and everyone was covered in wool. My face was the crumbs on their sleeves.
They all peered at me.
“Where do you want me to put your...face?.... Harriet?” one said, holding the largest part of me.
“Maybe you shouldn’t say anything. You look very loose. How are we going to hold you together?”
“Does she need to sit down?”
“Is he still kissing her?” I said.
“Oh, Harriet! Is this what’s going to happen every time? Yes. Just let him go!”
Restless viewing.
It used to only happen occasionally and then it became more frequent. She would lie awake and check her phone and read and put the book down and toss and turn and do this over and over again.
While lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling, two fine rods attached to the end of each eyebrow would move up and down and up and down at a furious pace. The speed created a television snow that hovered over her brow and kept her awake all night long.
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