Poem #6

Electrickity popwhiz rhthm,

Feedback loop, grinding curtain power chord,

Flatness, bold flatness,

Care-to-the-wind flatness,

Dru drum solo plugup,

Eight more bars and ditch it,

Come in strong, man, come in hard, mark your mark,

This ain't no soundcheck.

Whiny pullout bend bar, brackic lakadak,

Headbang, shut 'em eyes, sweatback, sweet crunch,

Basslip rip job, pedal key, tunerap,

Stereo groove, echo ears, fade side, punch-in killing,

Take it out, now, take it all the way out,

This Ain't No Soundcheck.

Poem #5

This is her face. Stand still, my love,

Let me nose the neck,

And hair the shadowy Brow

The shapes I memorized long ago.

The Youth and Age meet in the middle

Below the lipping cheeks,

Like cats, hiding under a mattress,

But heard purring from the chin.

Here twirls the fuzz to the nape;

There the fabric ears the neck,

Over which I palmed my soul with thee,

O sweetest of my life!

Poem #4

Emo kid hates the salesman,

Emo kid hates the stoplight,

Emo kid hates the older, less emo kid.

Chipped nails muted by a starless night.

Pull the thin white jacket peel-tight.

Buckles and belts and pins and braids turn the corner right.

Sneer.

Emo kid has problems,

Emo kid has feelings,

Emo kid has friends.

He just doesn't know it.

Poem #3

I don't know the name of the mountain range

That I look at every day

On my run around the reservoir

I only know how high it seems

Threatening to crush the valley below

And how wide it stretches

Past the field of peripheral vision

And the shark blue tint of its winter peaks

As opposed to the other California season

And the roundness of the stratus clouds

That collapse over the leeward side

Like down from a torn pillow

Coming to rest on the heads

Of the cottonwoods, holding hands

And the breath it pumps into my lungs

And the shimmering reflection that dances

Over the murky cement pool

That gives shape to my journey

But not the name

Poem #2

The thing about we giants is,

We're obsessed with flies.

Seeing over mountains, leaping castle walls, digging mud huts with big-knuckled mitts,

Crushing granite, scratching triceps, smoking hay, shoving elephants,

Doing pullups on moat bridges, breathing through our mouths, cursing, eating charred cattle,

Drinking sea water, fornicating with terrible female versions of ourselves,

Fashioning clubs out of petrified oaks, urinating on the pastor's wagon,

It all stops,

When a fly buzzes by.

That perfect pest, dopplering corner to corner,

Taking brutal advantage of the stereo effect.

How can I stomp the villagers,

With that galling, irksome, winged demon

in my ear?

Poem #1

Today is the first of three hundred and sixty five

Toes kiss the edge of the board, ready set dive

When my face hits the water, will it be warm or frozen?

One poem per day, is the challenge I've chosen

They may not all rhyme, some will surely be prattle

But MC Quantity disses DJ Quality in this lyrical battle

A daily struggle to create more, more, more

But after this line, only three hundred and sixty four