how to get over (senior to freshman)

pick the big bitch: the chick who look like she chew screwdrivers. hunched at the lunch table copying homework, shredding syllables with a mouthful of metal. shush the rebel in your throat, that ghost of punk funking dark circles in the pits of your polo. resist the impulse to shittalk your way through ranch dressing and lunchroom throng. bumrush: snatch song from her ears, tangle of headphone wires and tracks of mangled weave. nevermind uglying her face with nails or an armful of bangles. she already a jigsaw puzzle of scratch and scar, every exposed part caked in vaseline. every fold of fat fortified with that free-free — french fries, chickenshit shaped like tenders, cheese sticks. she will slip’n slide you if you don’t come correct. pick you up by your bookbag till you feel fly, camera phone red eyes winking your punkass almost famous. but that ain’t your fame to claim. pitbull her ankles till she drop, till ketchup and corn splatter, scatter abstract like technique from our 5th period art class. as she knuckles herself up from chickenfeed, ain’t no need to run. instead smile for the video, that soul-clap in your chest is your heart.