Tuesday, September 29, 2015


Two fucking years ago
A month or two after Citibike fucking started up
I was like, fucking hell, I hardly ever ride the fucking subway anymore
So I stopped getting the monthly fucking unlimited fucking Metrocard
And got a pay per fucking ride
And I hardly ever fucking paid for a fucking subway ride:

For fucking months
I'd get on a fucking bike each morning
And I'd be like, hey I'm fucking saving money
And after a couple of months,
Let me fucking tell you,
I was the fastest motherfucking Citbike riding motherfucker
On the motherfucking bike path
Along the fucking Hudson
Going south in the morning.
Not the fastest fucking bike rider --
There were always some fucking Lycrafucks
Who would pass my ass (see "Bike"; the second to last
Motherfucking poem I wrote on August 30th of last fucking year;
Or hear "Bike," here; I think it's the second fucking track).
But never fucking ever did a motherfucker on another Citibike
Ever fucking pass me.

But sometime last October
I started spending a lot more fucking time in Brooklyn
Where there weren't, and still aren't,
A lot of motherfucking Citibike stations.
So I started getting the monthly fucking unlimited again.
And it was a cold fucking winter any fucking way
With fucking ice
And sometimes some motherfucking snow
I didn't want to ride a fucking bike any fucking way.

But then the spring came
And I still wasn't fucking riding
Months would fucking pass
I'd refill my fucking Metrocard
For the motherfucking month
Every fucking month
And take the subway every fucking place.

I just got out of the fucking habit.
When I used to have a fucking pay per ride Metrocard
I'd be saving money every time I took a fucking bike
But with the fucking monthly,
It was like I was fucking wasting money:
And I'd be like, "I might as well take the fucking subway
Those 14 motherfucking blocks; it'll save me a minute or two,
And it's already fucking paid for,"
Instead of just taking a fucking bike
Or fucking walking.

Okay, so anyway (this is a long fucking way to go
For not much of a payoff, really;
If you're still reading this shit, thank you.
You are probably a lot more fucking patient than I am),
On Sunday,
It was time to refill my motherfucking monthly Metrocard,
But I was like, "Fuck it, no:
I haven't been to fucking Brooklyn in weeks;
I'll ride a Citibike tomorrow and Tuesday
To and from fucking work;
And maybe I'll refill the Metrocard Wednesday,
Or Thursday
Or maybe fucking never.
But probably Wednesday or Thursday.

Okay, but, see,
It's been a long fucking time
Since I've rode a fucking Citibike to work--
Almost a fucking year, I fucking think.
And meanwhile, some motherfuckers
Have gotten really fucking good:
I felt really fucking old this morning
Watching motherfuckers whiz past me
On fucking Citibikes.
Some of these motherfuckers
Looked even fucking older than me.

I was watching them fucking pass me,
And thinking, "I've fucking lost it.
I'm fucking old.
I'm too old for this fucking shit.
I'm just going to get
A fucking monthly unlimited
And forget the whole fucking thing."
And maybe I fucking will. Tomorrow.

Maybe I should fucking wear
The bottom of my motherfucking trousers rolled.
My back is fucking aching, and my knees.
I am old. I am old.

So, of course, also, I'm thinking about what I've fucking lost:
Not just my stamina,
But people too.
There's been a lot of fucking loss this fucking year.
And the older I fucking get,
The more I'll fucking lose, I fucking figure.

It may fucking sound like I'm really fucking miserable,
But I'm not. I'm fucking fine.
A little fucking angry, fucking sad, fucking frustrated,
But mostly fucking fine.
Mitchell, aka Tsvi, from fucking high school,
Killed himself a couple months ago.
George O'Malley,
Who played the shit out of that motherfucking xylophone
On the You Suck single and Wuss,
Died last fucking week. It fucking sucks.

But I'm not fucking miserable.
I'm grateful for a lot of fucking things.
I am glad to have known the people I have known.
They've given me so motherfucking much.

So when I saw Mark and Harriet yesterday
At Syd Straw's show,
I gave them big fucking hugs,
And after the show,
I hugged Syd hard too,
Because you never fucking know
When you will never see someone again.

Seriously, I am not fucking sad
Dealing with the loss of someone you care about
Means you fucking cared
Means you fucking felt something
Means you fucking feel something
Means you are fucking alive
And life is good. Life is good.
Life is motherfucking, motherfucking good.

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

"118" and "Book": This Fuckin' Guy has been at it for a year!

A year ago today,
This Fucking Guy
Wrote his first fucking poem
Called "Dragonfly"

Fucking "Dachshund" and Fucking "Daisy"
Were written that day too

I just fucking counted
How many there have been
117 motherfuckers
A motherfucking sin

A few are pretty fucking good
And a few are fucking not
But regardless, 117's
A motherfucking lot

I posted one motherfucker twice
Because it was rewritten
But it only counts as one
Otherwise, that would be bullshitting

And there's a fucking poem called "Cake"
Inside another poem
I figured, fuck it, that one counts
Leave me the fuck alone

Anyway, it's been a year a this shit
Happy fucking birthday
To motherfucking me

I've been thinking,
Fuck me, there are a fuckload
Of This Fuckin' Guy poems.
Shouldn't there be a fucking book?

"Owls" has already been fucking published,
And a few more are supposed to be
In the next fucking issue of Lungfull
And there's a fucking This Fucking Guy T-Shirt
(You can see John S. Hall wearing it here)
There's even a fucking CD

So how about a fucking book?
There's 119 of these motherfuckers
(Counting this motherfucker)
Isn't that enough for a fucking book?

I mean, not all of them should be published
A lot of them are fucking stupid
But even if 70 of them are too fucking stupid to be published,
That's still leaves almost 50.

Almost 50 is enough for a fucking book.
And if it's not,
I could always write some more of these motherfuckers.
Because apparently, I can never shut the fuck up.
I might take a fucking break for a week, or a month,
Or a couple of fucking months,
But I'll be back,
Even if there never is a motherfucking book.
Because This Fuckin' Guy really likes to write poems.
No fucking lie.

Sunday, August 2, 2015

"Explanation" and "Picture": This Fuckin' Guy Follows up on Yesterday's Poem.

I'm not fucking sure
If I explained
How my toe got so fucked up.

You see, when you go on a fucking long ass motherfucking hike,
Particularly when you're hiking downhill,
It's very fucking easy
To stub your fucking toes
On motherfucking rocks.
And I did this repeatedly.

And if you haven't cut your fucking toenails recently,
The motherfucking toenail
Will jam down into your toe
When you stub that shit on a rock.
And the longer the fucking toenail
The more that shit hurts.
And that toenail,
On the right big toe,
That shit was long.
This Fuckin' Guy
Forgets to clip his motherfucking toenails

So, my solution
(Rather than just fucking remembering
To clip those motherfuckers
On a regular fucking basis)
Is, the next time I plan to go
On a motherfucking hike,
I'll put a note in my fucking calendar
Two days before the hike
That says "Clip your fucking toenails."

Oh, and I already fucking said
I'm not taking a picture
Of my fucking toe,
So you can all fucking stop asking.

Saturday, August 1, 2015

"Toe": This Fuckin' Guy Contemplates an Appendage.

Damn my toe got fucked up from that hike last weekend.
That shit is black and fucking disgusting.
I'm not one to wear sandals, normally, but I was just out walking with some mothefucking sandals on, and motherfuck me, that toe looks like shit.
I only first noticed it a couple of days ago.
I don't look at my feet a lot.
I'm not into feet, like I heard Quentin Tarrantino is really fucking into feet,
But I'm not, and even if I fucking was,
I wouldn't be into my feet
And even if I was into my own fucking feet,
I would be like, yo, motherfucking foot over there, I'll see you in a couple of fucking weeks, because that motherfucking toe over there is fucked up.
I could take a photograph of it, and maybe I will, but I don't know if I would want anyone to see that shit. It's fucked.
I'm not trying to be coy.
I'm not trying to play it like, oh, if you talk me into it, I will show you my fucked up fucking toe. Because I won't.
This motherfucking fucked up toe is not for the general public,
Except that just now, before, I went outside with sandals and every motherfucker could have seen that shit if they had been looking.
But no more.
I won't be wearing sandals again for quite some time.
Because that toe is fucked up.

Monday, July 27, 2015

"Hike": This Fuckin' Guy Spends a Weekend Hiking.

First, to expose a fucking artifice for what it fucking is:
This is not an actual fucking diary
I wrote all of this on the same fucking day (July 27).
So, even though I fucking wrote it to make it look like a diary
I am not fucking interested in convincing you
That this is a fucking diary.
Rather, I want to make it crystal fucking clear
That this is not, in fucking fact, an actual fucking diary,
So as not to be fucking misleading.
So let's get fucking started.
Thursday, July 24, 5:30 PM:
I'm in the fucking hardware store
Having a fucking set of keys made,
And the music that is playing
Is "Dueling Fucking Banjo's" --
The fucking theme song from fucking Deliverance.
The motherfucker making the fucking keys
Is talking to me about
How the banjos are driving him fucking crazy and he can't fucking think,
But I'm thinking about how in two days,
I'm supposed to go on a fucking hike
On the Appalachian Fucking Trail
And I don't want what happened to Ned Fucking Beatty
To happen to me
Or any one else I'll be hiking with,
(Or to fucking anybody, really. It was really fucking fucked up what happened to
Ned Fucking Beatty in Deliverance).
(And yes, I fucking know that in Deliverance,
It's a fucking canoe trip; not a fucking hike.
But for someone like me,
Who spends very little fucking time in nature
(Which is especially odd,
Considering I like to consider myself
A fucking nature poet),
A fucking canoe trip
And a fucking hike,
Are the same fucking motherfucking difference).
But, so I'm wondering,
Is this a fucking sign?
Should I not go?
No, that's fucking stupid.
It's not a fucking sign.
But then, if I fucking go,
And what happened to Ned Beatty
Happens to me,
Then I'm going to feel really fucking stupid
For tempting fucking fate.
Friday, July 24, 12:30 PM:
Well, it's all fucking set
For fucking sure,
Ned Beatty or no,
I'm fucking going.
Wait--I'm fucking going?
I'm going to hike 20 fucking miles 
On the fucking Appalachian Trail
Over two fucking days?
Am I out of my fucking mind?
Do I realize how little fucking experience I have fucking hiking?
Do I know how fucking old I am?
I'm fucking old.
Maybe it doesn't fucking matter how fucking old I am.
There was a 79 year motherfucker who hiked the whole fucking AT,
2200 miles of that shit.
So I should be able to handle fucking 20.
Over one motherfucking weekend.
10 miles on fucking Saturday,
Camp out overnight,
10 more fucking miles on Sunday,
And boom. Fucking done. Boom.
That seems fucking doable.
Actually, that sounds like a really nice time.*
Saturday, July 25, 9:25 PM:
This fucking hike
Started out pretty fucking hard
Maybe 20 fucking minutes of pretty fucking steep uphill shit.
But the whole fucking time,
I'm thinking, it seems pretty fucking manageable.
The hardest part for me, really,
Is when you pass motherfuckers going the other way,
You're supposed to say hi to them.
And that's just not my fucking way.
But I do it. I say fucking hi to a shitload of motherfuckers
Going the other fucking way.
I don't fucking like it, but I fucking do it.
And actually, 
I don't fucking like that I don't fucking like doing it.
I feel like, I should get over that self conscious shit.
I'm too fucking old to be this fucking self fucking conscious.
One good thing--nobody looked like the
"I'm going to Ned Beatty your ass" type.
Almost everybody on the fucking trail
Seemed really fucking nice,
And everybody else was at least ok.
We didn't get as far as we fucking planned,
So we will have to do 12 fucking miles tomorrow.
But we will be up earlier
We should be okay.
We should be fucking fine.
And this is a really nice time,
Looking up through the motherfucking tent
At the beautiful motherfucking trees.
Fucking fuck me.
It's too fucking cloudy to see the fucking stars,
But it's still very motherfucking beautiful.
No fucking lie.
Sunday, July 26, 6:15 PM:
We fucking slept late,
And I should be fucking panicking,
Like, how the fuck are we going to ever fucking finish this,
And how the fuck am I going to handle
These steep motherfucking descents
Without breaking a motherfucking ankle?
But I'm not fucking panicking.
I'm fucking doing it:
I'm fucking hiking,
I'm drinking the water from the motherfucking waterfall
(After purifying it, of course),
And I'm saying hi to motherfuckers,
Even exchanging a few words with some of them.
I'm fucking interacting with motherfuckers.

I mean, don't get me fucking wrong,
I'm still a fucking misanthrope a lot of the fucking time,
And selfish, and self centered-- observe,
For fucking example,
How I haven't even taken the fucking time
To even name the other people hiking with me
(Rachel, Mike, Liz and Rick,
And there's also a dog: Viola).

Although that's as much to do
With my result-oriented fucking nature
As anything fucking else.
I just want to finish writing this shit.
I'm enjoying writing it,
But it already feels fucking long,
And I feel like it should be fucking done.
Just like, by the 17th or 18th fucking mile,
I feel like this fucking hike should be done.
So fucking result oriented:
Like how I won't even stop to pick a fucking blackberry
Off a motherfucking bush.
But then, when Rachel picks them,
Fuck yes, I will eat those motherfuckers,
And acknowledge that yes,
They are motherfucking delicious.
And I'm so fucking easily distracted
Instead of just being fucking present,
In the beautiful fucking eternal fucking now.
Mosquitos hum in my fucking ear,
And I hear fucking "Summer's Caldron" by XTC.
And then I can't get that fucking song out of my fucking head
For fucking hours.
Not to mention "Dueling Fucking Banjos."
Which has been stuck in my fucking head
All fucking weekend.
And then, at one fucking point,
I'm thinking, wait, what was that fucking thing,
With the banjos and two people shouting at once?
It's not a Monty Fucking Python fucking thing.
And then I remember: 
"Dueling Fucking Brandos."
One of them was John Belushi,
But who was the other motherfucker?
That shit is going to bother me until
I look that shit up
But I'm not fucking going to do that now.
It's bad enough I keep checking my fucking email.
Why can't I be off-fucking-line?
Why can't I be off the fucking grid?
I mostly am, and it's really fucking nice.
But it is so fucking hard
To not look that shit up.
Like the other day,
At the fucking Indian Restaurant,
When they served some very large motherfucking dosas,
And Ben had to look up
"World's Largest Fucking Dosa,"
I totally fucking understood.
But of course, he probably doesn't do that shit
When he's on a fucking hike.
But can I not look that shit up?
Can I?

Sunday, July 2, 7:45 PM:
I fucking did it!
It's fucking done!
I fucking made it!
I made it the whole fucking twenty miles
Without looking that shit up,
Or breaking my ankle,
Or getting fucking Beatty'd.
Not only that,
I would do that shit again.
I really fucking would.
I fucking would.
Monday, July 27, 2:00 PM:
It was Peter Fucking Boyle.
July 27, 2015
*Note: "That sounds like a really nice time" is non-registered trademark of This Fuckin' Guy.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

"Gym": This Fuckin' Guy Posts Twice in One Day.

At the fucking gym
(Yes, I fucking know.
I don't seem like the type to go to fucking gym. I know I certainly don't fucking look like I go to the fucking gym),
At the motherfucking climbing gym,
(I know, I fucking know),
The guy I was climbing with,
Asked me about the fucking show
At Shea Fucking Stadium,
Which is a nightclub in fucking Bushwick.
Where I'll be doing
Some fucking poems
With King Fucking Missile,
On June 27th,
And Schwervon is fucking playing too.

So he says,
"I've been climbing with a motherfucking rock star,"
And I say,
"I prefer the term 'has-been.'"

And then I said,
"Better a has-been than a never was, I guess,"
In an effort to make myself feel a little fucking better.

An effort which fucking failed,
Because I don't even fucking know
If I'm a fucking has-been
Or a motherfucking never was.

Oh, fuck me.
I'm just in a motherfucking mood today.
It will fucking pass,
Just like every other fucking thing will pass.

"IRT" and "NBC": This Fuckin' Guy Hears Some Mariachi Music and Sees a Fucking Clown--Or Does He?

On the IRT express going downtown this morning,
A motherfucking Mariachi trio sang Besame Mucho
And I noticed that I wasn't fucking pissed off at all.

They were right fucking next to me
And really fucking loud
But they sounded great.
Or maybe I was just in a good fucking mood.

Anyway, I gave them a fucking dollar, because,
Why the fuck not?
Then, when I changed for the local at Chambers,
There's this fucking clown,
An actual clown,
With a fucking red clown nose, and a big fucking bag full of clown shit.
So, I was like, fuck me, I've got write this shit down right now.
And I pulled out my motherfucking phone
And wrote it down before we got to South Ferry.
Fuck yes.

Then, on the way to the fucking office,
I pass the fucking Walgreens,
And there's a poster for "Red Nose Day,"
Some fucking thing that NBC is sponsoring,
And I look at the date and it's fucking today.

So I'm like,
Maybe that fucking clown on the 1 train n
Wasn't a fucking clown at all.

Which is funny,
(Do you know that one?  Two cannibals are eating a fucking clown
And one of them says,
"Does this fucking clown
Taste funny to you?"),
It's funny because I was going to say,
In the last fucking poem,
That the clown looked funny:
Not like clown-funny,
But like not-a-clown-funny,
Like, fucking peculiar.

Like, he looked kind of sad,
Not sad clown-sad,
But like, just fucking sad, or fucking resigned, or some shit.
Like, maybe he works for NBC,
And today, his fucking job
Is to wear a red fucking nose
And do some fucking clown shit.
Which all of this fucking goes to show
You can't judge a clown by his motherfucking nose.
Maybe those fucking Mariachis
Weren't fucking Mariachis either.
Who the fuck knows?