‘Dinner Party of Ex-Bosses’, ‘Requirements To Be A Pig’, ‘Manqué’, & ‘The Toilet and the Coffin’
Daniel Wood Adams is a multifaceted creative with a passion for blending visual aesthetics and craftsmanship. As a graphic designer, illustrator, and woodworker, Daniel’s work reflects a unique intersection of artistry and skill. Daniel’s creative journey began with degrees in Illustration and Graphic Design from Pratt Institute in 2012. Those formative years were a thrilling rollercoaster of art, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and caffeine-fueled all-nighters, setting the stage for what would become a dynamic career. Before moving to Austin, Daniel navigated the cold climates of Connecticut and New York City.
Dinner Party of Ex-Bosses
The heart rests on an oval plate atop the mahogany dining table. It beats still—over ice. Rosemary, sage, and thyme over the epicardium. Orange slices and cloves adorn the fibers. A voice comments about the freshness of the organ. Marlon, it’s you, he raises an eyebrow. And there’s Nicholas, Deanna, Becky, Matt, Amanda, and Tom too. The white wire tangled on the floor leads to my body, connected to the hole in my chest, it does something God-like and keeps me breathing on the surgical table away from the feast. A man wearing dark sunglasses and a tuxedo plays the piano nearby. My body is numb as the rest of the dinner party anxiously await with knife and fork in hand. Shimmery silverware and wine glasses click…click click click. The guests rise in unison over the heart. It is as though I watch them from within the chambers, feel their hungry eyes and their salivating glands. And then the cut—every slice on the muscle is felt through the taunting of their pleasure. Moans of ecstasy erupt, the guests come alive through “oohs” and “aahs,” euphorically intoxicated smiles, full mouths of fresh flesh, tightly indulging, revealing pieces of me scattered over the table, bones ripped of their muscle. I forgot how to scream, I forgot how to be a human. Tom burps, cleans his blood-stained mouth with a white napkin and leans back, his elbow hanging over the backrest of the chair. “Let’s touch base again next Monday.” He proposes a toast. The waitstaff clears the table and serve dessert.
Requirements To Be A Pig
The pig does not have time for fun. The pig is on the run. It must be bred of artificial insemination in a tight crate. It must be taken from its mother, it must grow up alone but surrounded by others—all wondering and questioning the same thing, cramped in the foul room where their tails are cut off, it will be castrated (that’s where the flavor is). It will grow into a fat one. Then there will come a day in which it will be stunned, slaughtered, its throat cut open, bleeding out for all of its delicious meat, it will be dipped in boiling water to rid of its disgusting hairs and any parts that make it living will be only matter. It will be dismembered and its parts will be packed beautifully and sold at different prices in different stores under names such as bacon, pancetta, prosciutto. It will be picked up by a random person, devoured within seconds between bread slices with mustard and mayonnaise, and it will be defecated and flushed down a toilet. The life of the pig is meaningless, it serves no purpose but to feed the starving bellies of humanity. The pig does not feel pain, it does not wail, it knows no love, it knows nothing more than what it knows. The pig knows its purpose; it is happy to die for you. The pig knows its life has no meaning; the pig knows its death is humane. The pig doesn’t know life. The pig with a heart is just food.
Manqué
I accept this failure;
the world needs more ordinary people.
I relinquish this losing battle,
I’ve been at war for too long,
time has run out and I am worn out.
I fought when I wasn’t whole,
and when I was falling apart,
I fought when I bled, when I cried, when I screamed,
but I no longer can withstand the beatings,
perhaps—perhaps—this wasn’t my battle to fight,
and how many beautiful singers
will the world never hear?
how many talented writers
will the world never read?
how many gifted dancers
will the world never see?
it’s a bitter pill to swallow that these dreams
will never prosper here, not in this lifetime
so I give up, I give up, I give up,
none of it was meant for me
but I tried, o how I tried, and you—
you should see!
they were great in my mind!
they were grand!
o, were they grand!
o, they were beautiful!
The Toilet and the Coffin
I watch them wither into wisps of smoke—
collecting ashes of what once was a desire for everything,
and a settlement for nothing, now I want none of it,
it is ok to be the same as everyone else,
it is ok to be…nothing, to be ‘no one,’
the television lies again and again
to tell us what they want us to hear,
and it is ok to not listen,
no one gets to dictate the truth
not the politician, the monk, the priest, the queen,
the ceo, the famous actor, the famous singer,
no human is worthy of worship, no human is almighty,
no flesh escapes the claw of death,
the toilet unites us, the coffin too
they are the true testaments of equality.
Lázaro Gutiérrez’s work can be found in several publications, such as Tint Journal, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing, Vermillion, Latino Literatures, Discretionary Love, Molecule - A Tiny Lit Mag, Somos en Escrito, Barzakh Magazine, Frontera Lit, Azahares Literary Magazine, SOMOS Latinx Literary Magazine, and is forthcoming in BarBar, and Blue Gaia..
