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"Peace," "Endings," "Metatweet," and "Trip (With "Cake" Infuckingside)": This Fuckin' Guy Has a Fucking Religious Experience, Then Gets Really Meta and Petty and Personal and Small and Self-Indulgent and Tiresome and a Little Fucking Hard on Himself.

This fucking morning
Was fucking beautiful, and
As I walked toward the motherfucking
Citibike fucking station
For my first motherfucking bike ride
Since fucking last Thursday,
I saw a motherfucking squirrel climb up a tree:

The fucking light breaking
Through the motherfucking clouds
The fucking smell of Autumn in New York:
God damn motherfucking fuck,
There fucking are no motherfucking words.

The motherfucking feeling of timelessness
And fucking ecstasy and fucking oneness
And fucking nothingness
That fucking feeling of being there
And not fucking being there
And being fucking everywhere at once
And fucking nowhere
In the same fucking instant,
In that single motherfucking timeless moment

Motherfucking peace:
Not wanting fucking anything
Not needing to fucking know anything
Just fucking feeling, being/not being,
Knowing that the fucking moment will pass
But even being fucking fine with that

I stood there and watched the fucking squirrel
Until I couldn't fucking see him anymore
Then I brought the shit to the dry cleaners
And got on a fucking bike
And rode.

There has been this fucking feeling
For a couple of fucking weeks
That This Fuckin' Guy
Isn't going to last much fucking longer.

The guy, John S. Fucking Hall,
Who actually types these motherfucking words
Has been telling people that he might have to kill me off.

He's been acting like Arthur Fucking Conan Doyle.
To tell you the motherfucking truth,
Saying, "I could always kill him off,
And then bring him back by popular demand."
Like I'm fucking Sherlock Fucking Holmes kinda thing.

If This Fuckin' Guy goes the fuck away
There would only be maybe fifteen fucking people
Who would actually fucking care,
Although that's still fucking something,
A fucking audience is a fucking audience
The people who give you their fucking attention
Should never be shitted on
Or made to feel they don't fucking matter.

But ultimately, they don't:
This Fuckin' Guy would have died when he was born,
In fucking August,
If a handful of motherfuckers
Hadn't responded really fucking positively
But ultimately, if there's nothing more to fucking say
Then there's nothing more to fucking say

As these fucking poems
Get more and more fucking meta
And self fucking referential,
This Fuckin' Guy
Seems more and more fucking irrelevant

The motherfucker who types this shit,
Has a new fucking idea
For another fucking series
And he needs to clear his motherfucking mind
So he can orient himself toward that shit
Instead of this.

This sounds like a fucking apology
But it's fucking not:
It's a fucking question,
And a fucking challenge,
And a fucking self indulgent piece of bullshit.

There will still be motherfucking poems to write
In this stupid fucking voice
There will be at least two more today,
And probably several more after that.
But this shit has got to wind down some fucking time:
There's more than enough for a motherfucking book,
Twenty of these bastards have been fucking recorded
A cafuckingppella
And six of these shits were recorded fucking Friday
with a great fucking LA band called LoveyDove.
 (This link is to their first fucking record;
I'm not fucking on it, but it's great.)

And more fucking readings
And more fucking shows
And there will be more fucking recordings
With LoveyDove and some other motherfuckers
No fucking doubt.

But everything fucking dies
Often sooner than we fucking like
Grasping, clinging, hoping it's not so
Only fucking makes it fucking worse.

This stupid fucking meta fucking poem
Also has to fucking end sometime
Don't worry; we're almost fucking there.

Believe it or fucking not
I feel really fucking great today
Just a little fucking frustrated
But it will fucking pass

I feel like there was one more fucking thing...

I can't fucking remember
I hate that fucking shit.


Okay, fuck this.



Earlier this motherfucking month
I thought it might be a little fucking fun
To tweet about how stupid
My fucking stupid tweets are
And add a fucking hashtag: #metatweet

I tweeted several of them
Last fucking weekend
(And by "I tweeted,"
I mean omgitsjsh, not not omfgitstfg;
There is no omfgitstfg, except now there fucking is.)

Anyway, the tweets were a little fucking amusing,
And there will probably be more of them
And I shouldn't have been fucking surprised
That I wasn't the first fucking person
To come up with that fucking hashtag.

Metatweets are really fucking fun
And I hope I write a fuckload more of them
Because I never fucking know
What else to tweet.

This fucking poem, if that's what it is
Has no fucking point to it at all,
Except that last fucking Monday
I said I would fucking write it.
So now I fucking have.
So fucking there.

My motherfucking trip to Los Fucking Angeles
Was 70, maybe 75% fucking fantastic
And 25 fucking per cent fucking awful
Which is a fuck of a better ratio than I had expected

Even before I booked the fucking flight
I knew there was going to be a fuckload of shit
I was going to have to fucking work out
Wreckage that I had to clear away
Shit that I needed to clean up,
But that I fucking knew
Wasn't really fucking going to get resolved.

But shortly after I had bought the fucking tickets
I fucking realized
That I had made a massive fucking mistake
But by that fucking time
The fucking shows were in place
And I couldn't cancel the motherfucking trip.

I made the fucking best of it I could
I arranged to leave three days fucking earlier
Get the fuck out of dodge, as they fucking say.
Save some fucking money, vacation days, time, sanity.

But this meant I had to fuck some people over
Blow some fucking folks completely off
And not spend as much fucking time with some people
As I fucking wanted to, or as I should have.

When push comes to shove, I can be a fucking dick:
Manipulative, petty, vindictive, cowardly, stupid,
Uncaring, small, inattentive, obnoxious, self-obsessed,
Selfish, monstrous, and just fucking motherfucking shitty.
And I was all of those fucking things this weekend.

On the other fucking hand, the shows were good.
Some motherfuckers had a great fucking time.
The LoveyDove recordings came out really fucking well.
And I didn't eat too motherfucking much.
But I didn't write a motherfucking word of poetry.
The only one I even fucking thought of, but didn't write,
Was this:

Sunday at the fucking vegan restaurant
Whose name I can't fucking remember,
Because I'm fucking stupid,
And I can't ever remember fucking names,

After ordering the fucking fried avocado,
And the motherfucking Philly fucking cheesesteak,
It was completely fucking uncalled for
And totally fucking wrong
To order the fucking red velvet cake as fucking well.

But I fucking did it.
Because I'm a fucking monster
And thank fucking god
That someone at the fucking yard sale
Wanted to trade it
For a zine by Janet Fucking Housden

(And now I'm fucking wondering
If that fucking someone was Janet Fucking Housden,
Who I don't think I've ever fucking met)

And thank fucking god
I made the trade.

See? The fucking date on that one is today, too:
I spent three fucking days in LA
And didn't write a motherfucking thing
Except some emails, most of which I didn't even send.
The trip was fucking full of psychodrama, believe you fucking me.
Almost all of it
Of my own fucking making.

I will eventually get through the fucking awful
Although some of it will fester in my motherfucking mind
For a long fucking time
And fucking consume me if I fucking let it.
So I probably won't fucking let it.

Instead, I will do a lot of stupid shit this week.
Distract myself with music and motherfucking responsibilities
And try do be less of a fucking dick.

So far, since I've gotten fucking back
I have failed fucking miserably
At not being a fucking dick.
But I've got to cut this bullshit out, stat.

Onward and fucking upward,
Into the fucking breach,
Radiate kindness and understanding and fucking love,
Try to be fucking helpful
Try to be a  human fucking being,
Instead of a motherfucking monster.

Appreciate what I fucking have,
Instead of whining about what I don't.
Embrace the beautiful motherfucking day.
Happy fucking Tuesday to me.


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