Heavy Stuff

You might see me in a totally
deep private video wearing a flannel shirt
soaked in real stage blood
with a hook for an arm
made from a rusty wire hanger --
How did that get into this poem?
You might have to crack open
a pomegranate and fling the seeds on the
damp blue carpet -- not out of mischief, but of spite --
that's the way you roll in your cycle of crispy woe.
You can shave or pluck the unsightly hairs from your
gurgling enemies, you can rake the yard
of glass and offal while casually piercing the bag
of Peaches and Herb. You can even score points
with a machete as you walk through the mall, but you'll
never ever ever ever ever make friends with
the cool group because they totally kick
ass and they are not afraid of your bullshit.