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"Back?," "Beck?," "Winter," "Spring," "Snow," "Penske," "Pepsi," "Why?," and "Thanks": This Fuckin' Guy Wonders if he's Back, Writes a Bunch of Poems, Gives Thanks, and Still Wonders.

It's been almost five fucking months, and a shitload of shit has happened,
But I  haven't fucking felt like fucking writing.

That's not exactly fucking true--now and then,
I've fucking felt like it.
But I fucking didn't.

Like, when Winter went on and on and on and fucking on,
I thought I'd write a poem about that,
But then I fucking didn't.
I just fucking didn't.

And when Spring finally fucking came,
I wanted to write some shit about that as well:

I had a couple of fucking epiphanies
While looking at some motherfucking trees,

And I thought to myself,
I'm a motherfucking nature poet,
It would be the most natural fucking thing in the world
For me to write about this shit.

But I fucking didn't.
I kept fucking telling myself,
Maybe I will,
But I fucking didn't.

This morning, I was going to get on a motherfucking Citibike,
And ride into work like I fucking used to do,
But I saw some motherfucker
Taking the last fucking bike,
And I thought,
Fuck this, I'll take the fucking train:

I'll get in early, and write a fucking poem
About how pissed off I was about not getting a fucking bike this morning,

But I fucking didn't.
I fucking got distracted with personal fucking shit,
As I am fucking wont to fucking do.

But I've been sitting here for a few hours,
And there doesn't seem to be a fuck of a lot to do today,
So why the fuck not?
Why don't I just write a bunch of fucking poems until
I get fucking tired of writing fucking poems?

Fuck yes. Fuck yes.
That sounds like a really nice time.

Maybe I'm back.
Or maybe this is a motherfucking fluke.

Should I write a poem about Beck?
I really fucking loved that album he put out last year.
I haven't listened to it for several fucking months,
Although I think about the songs on it all the fucking time.

I used to know that motherfucker.
He was always fucking nice to me.
The last time we were in a room together,
He came up and started talking to me,
Which was really fucking nice.

I'm really fucking shy:
One of the reasons I write poems and fucking read them in front of people
Is so that people will come and talk to me.

Of course, sometimes people talk too fucking much
And I want to get the fuck away from them,
And then I feel bad about being such a fucking misanthrope,
And I wonder why the fuck I can't just be fucking gracious,
And fucking grateful.

I've been thinking a lot about back in the fucking day,
When Beck, and Paleface, and Roger Fucking Manning,
And Billy Fucking Syndrome, and Michelle Shocked,
And Brenda Fucking Kahn, and Winchester Fucking Chimes,
And Mike and Steve, and Steve and Mike,
And David Fucking Chelsea,
Sarah Fucking Hauser,
And Evil Fucking Jim,
And a million other motherfuckers
And me,
Used to gather on Sunday nights
At ABC No Rio,
And perform our shit.
That was a really nice time.

And of course,
Having just fucking written all those fucking names,
I'm thinking about a bunch of motherfuckers
I didn't name, and wondering whether I should.

But I won't. Fuck it.
Some of them I don't remember their last names.
And some of them I don't remember their names at all.
And some of them I don't fucking remember at all.
And some of them--oh, never fucking mind.

This poem isn't about Beck.
I guess I shouldn't write a poem about Beck.

But I should write a poem about Winter.
This last Winter was a motherfucking motherfucker!
I'm fucking serious.
I'm still fucking thinking about how fucking cold
That motherfucking Winter was.

If you go back and look at all the shit I wrote last August,
I don't think you will find that I complained all that fucking much
About the heat.
I may not have complained at all about the motherfucking heat.
I like to think I can handle the heat,
No matter how fucking hot it fucking gets.

But the cold: fuck the cold. Fuck the cold. Fuck the cold!
I hate it when it's motherfucking cold.
I hate the cold so motherfucking much,
That now, in May,
I'm still pissed off about it.
Of course, that's probably partly due to the fact
That it was pretty fucking cold just last fucking month.
So I'm still fucking bitter about the bitter motherfucking cold.

And I even missed a couple of fucking weeks of it
When I went to New Zealand,
But I'm still fucking pissed off about this last motherfucking Winter we just had.
Fuck that fucking Winter. Fuck it.

People complain about how in New York
There's no fucking Spring:
Like it's Spring for a week and a fucking half,
And then it's fucking Summer.

And it does kind of feel like it's summer right now.
And it did fucking feel like Winter
Just a couple of fucking weeks ago.

But I'm not fucking complaining,
Because it's not fucking Winter any more.
Fuck fucking Winter.
Fuck you, fucking Winter.
I fucking hate you, motherfucker.
I fucking hate your motherfucking guts.

Snow is nice every now and fucking then.
After I write my next poem,
Called "Spring,"
Maybe I'll write one called "Snow."
But I don't fucking know.

But fuck Winter. Fuck Winter. Fuck Winter.
I fucking hate Winter.

You'd think I'd be over it by now,
But you'd be wrong.

Fuck Winter.

Fuck Yes!
The buds fucking blooming!
The blooming fucking buds
On the fucking magnolia tree!

The fucking cherry blossoms!
Are you fucking kidding me?
So motherfucking beautiful
I can't even fucking stand it.

As I get older,
My fucking allergies kick up,
But I don't give a motherfucking shit.
Spring is totally fucking great:

The days get fucking longer,
And I just feel like I have all this fucking energy
I just want to Go Man Go!
I just want to move!
I just want to run, or ride a motherfucking bike, or
I don't fucking know.
I just want to do stuff.
Get out and go.
It's fucking great.

People say they like having four fucking seasons.
Do I like it?
I don't fucking know.
I love Spring, I like Summer, I love the fucking Fall
But--I don't know if you've heard--
I fucking hate Winter.

Maybe I'd like having three seasons?
I don't fucking know.
It would probably depend on where I'd have to go
To experience that shit.

But right now,
I'm experiencing this shit,
And it's really fucking nice.
I fucking love the motherfucking Spring.

One fucked up thing about not having a Winter
Would be that there would be no fucking snow.
I think that that would motherfucking suck.
I like snow every once in a fucking while.

But only every little once in a while.
Bring me little water, Silvy...

You know, the last fucking thing
You would think that I would think about
When thinking about the motherfucking snow,
Would be Leadbelly, but:

Bring Me Little Water, Silvy?
Are you fucking kidding me?
What a great fucking song!

And now I'm thinking about the only fucking time
I thought the sound at that piece of shit Avery Fischer Hall
Ever fucking sounded fucking good,
Was that time Casey and I were up in the fucking balcony,
Listening to Sweet Honey in the Motherfucking Rock.

They sang Bring Me Little Water, Sylvy.
and that shit was fucking magical.
Fucking other-worldly.
Oh my fucking God.

That was more than 20 fucking years ago,
But I still remember it like it was fucking yesterday,
But I just googled "Sweet Honey in the Rock: Silvy"
And it wasn't like I remembered.
It was still fucking beautiful, but a different kind of fucking beautiful.

But: Snow.
Snow is fucking beautiful.
It's a cliché to talk about when it covers the city
Like a motherfucking blanket,
But when it does that,
And it's so fucking quiet and calm,
Like the whole fucking city is asleep
Under a motherfucking blanket.

And when there's so much fucking snow
That the city shuts down for a few hours
Or a day,
That can be really fucking nice,
Even if you aren't a fucking kid,
Even if you've got a million other fucking things to do,
Even if it fucks up your shit,
Snow can be really fucking nice.

But snow all the time would probably fucking suck.
As much as I love the fucking snow sometimes,
I think I would rather never see another fucking flake,
Then to have to be in the fucking snow every fucking day.

Plus, if I lived where there was fucking snow all the time,
That might mean I'd be living with the fucking Inuits,
And that would mean I'd probably be eating fucking fish.
And I don't want to be eating fucking fish.
I don't want to be living in the 24-7-365 snow with the motherfucking Inuits.
Fishing in the motherfucking ice and fucking snow.
No. That does not sound like a really nice time.

I mean, the Inuits might be perfectly wonderful motherfuckers.
That's not the point. It's just that I don't want to be fishing.
And I definitely don't want to be fishing in the fucking cold.
And the fucking ice,
And the fucking snow.
Because really, there's very little I want to do
In the fucking ice,
And the fucking snow,
And the motherfucking, fucking, fucking cold.

So when all is fucking said and fucking done,
As motherfucking beautiful as it is,
I guess I'm more against the snow than fucking for it,
Which I guess is internally consistent
With my "I fucking hate Winter" fucking stance.

I feel like I should write at least one more.
And I like to start with a title,
And I looked over to my right,
And there's an add for Penske in the browser
For some fucking reason,
So, okay:

I think Penske are motherfuckers.
And I've always fucking thought this.

I remember the first time I saw a fucking truck
That said "Hertz/Penske" on it,
I thought, Oh shit. What the fuck is this?:
Hertz is a much nicer name than Penske.
Who the fuck is Penske?

Back whenever the fuck that was,
You couldn't just look shit up on the Internet.
Or maybe you could, but there wasn't any fucking Google
So I was just left to fucking wonder, and be fucking bitter.
What a shitty fucking name.
So I just now googled it, of fucking course:
Roger Penske.
He gave $500,000.00 to a Mitt Romney PAC.
But I'm not even going to go there. Fuck that.
Here's what I want to say:

You make a shitload of money,
Then you fucking buy Hertz,
And then you fucking rename the company Hertz/Penske
And then you rename it again to just fucking Penske?
Can't you see that Hertz is a much better fucking name?
You keep the same fucking logo and design,
You want people to subliminally keep thinking of Hertz,
But you also want people to know, This is mine now.
I won the pissing contest.
I pissed all over Hertz.
I pissed all over Hertz so fucking much
That you can't even see the Hertz name anymore.
Just me. Me, me. me. Penkse!

Fuck you, Penske.
Fuck you and your ugly fucking name.
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you, Penske.

If you ever catch me trying to rent something from Penske,
Shoot me in my motherfucking dick.

Oh shit, that sounds bad.
That sounds like I fucked my mother with my dick.
I never did that. For the record: I never fucked my mother with my dick.
Nor is that going on my fucking Bucket List.
I'm just saying, shoot me if you ever catch me trying to rent from Penske.
Shoot me wherever the fuck you want to shoot me.
It doesn't have to be my fucking dick.

I guess I should say
That if your name happens to be Penske,
But you're not that Penske,
The one that erased Hertz from the face of the earth
Because of your fucking ego,
Then I'm sorry that I said your name is ugly.

But if you are that Penske, then I'm not sorry, and you should go fuck yourself.

I realize that this shouldn't matter to me.
Penske. What the fuck's the difference?
What do I fucking care?
I don't fucking know: I just fucking do.
It's like my thing about fucking Pepsi.
About which, see my next fucking poem, entitled Pepsi.

Yeah, that's right. I'm not fucking done.
I've got at least one more motherfucker.

I fucking hate Pepsi, and I fucking hate Penske.

But fuck you Penske: goodbye.
Hello Pepsi. Motherfucker. It's on.

I have always, always, always hated Pepsi.
Back in the day,
I would walk right the fuck out of pizza places,
And boycott fucking restaurants,
Just because they don't have Coke--just Pepsi.

Pepsi has always just seemed like bullshit Coke.
I've never liked the name, although suddenly,
I'm noticing it looks vaguely fucking Italian,
So now, maybe I like the name a teeny tiny fucking bit more,
But mostly, still, no: it's a shitty fucking name.
Like Penske.

But it's not the just the fucking name.
It's the motherfucking fucking drink itself:
It's too fucking sweet, which is fucking weird for me to say,
Because I will eat some sweet motherfucking desserts,
And some really sweet fucking cereal sometimes,
But Pepsi's just too fucking sweet for me.

And it's also too fucking soft.
It's a soft motherfucking drink.

And I guess, okay, it's a soft drink,
Maybe it's supposed to be soft, but fuck:
A soft drink can be too fucking soft, just like anything else.
Like a pillow can be too fucking soft too. Am I fucking right?
Of course I'm fucking right.

You know, when I say, Of course I'm fucking right,
I realize that sounds very fucking assertive,
But I'm not that fucking assertive.

Marshall McLuhan called his ideas probes,
And I always thought he wasn't as concerned
With whether you fucking agreed with him,
But with whether what he was saying
Was interesting or not--whether it probed your mind or consciousness or heart
Or whatever the fuck.
And maybe he wasn't always sure about what he was saying:
Maybe he wasn't fucking asserting that the medium is the message.
Maybe he was just saying, Yo, do any of you motherfuckers out there
Think the medium might be the fucking message?
If so, what do you think that fucking means?
If not, why not? And regardless,
Does thinking about it make you feel anything?
Because I'm not saying the medium and the message are exact fucking equivalents.
I'm just saying, maybe, kind of sort, maybe. Maybe.
I'm not trying to fucking convince you.
I'm just fucking saying.

So, similarly, I don't fucking care
Whether you think a soft drink can be too fucking soft,
Or whether you think Coke is better than Pepsi.
Or whatever.

I used to, though:
I used to judge Pepsi people really fucking harshly.
Now I don't give a fucking shit.

Am I mellowing?

I may be fucking mellowing,
But I'm never going to be so fucking mellow
That I'm going to be okay with drinking fucking Pepsi instead of Coke.

On the other fucking hand,
I will generally take Mountain Fucking Dew, which is made by Pepsi,
Over Mello Fucking Yello, which is made by Coke,
Even though Mountain Fucking Dew's new logo makes me sick just looking at it.

But yes,
I have fucking mellowed.
This is how I've mellowed:

First, if I go to the fucking empanada place
Where you get a free drink with the empanada/rice and beans combo,
And all they have is Pepsi,
I'll get the fucking Diet Cherry Pepsi.
It's not that fucking bad.
It's not that fucking great,
But it's not that fucking bad.
It's not too fucking soft.
It's not that fucking sweet.

And if I'm at a place where I really need a fucking soda,
And all they fucking have is Pepsi shit,
Sometimes I'll just have a fucking Mountain Dew.
If it's in a glass, and I can't see that new fucking logo,
It's not that fucking bad.

Or maybe it fucking is;
Maybe I have no fucking self-respect.
Maybe I don't give a shit what I put in my fucking body
As long as it's fucking vegan.
I don't fucking know.

But fuck Pepsi.
And while I'm at it, fuck Penske again.
I hate that motherfucker.

Why am I writing all this shit today?
I don't fucking know. It's hard to fucking say.

Why didn't I write a fucking thing last week or yesterday?
I don't fucking know. It's hard to fucking say.

Will I write more tomorrow, or next week, or later today?
I don't fucking know. It's motherfucking hard to say.

I'm hungry and I have to take a piss.
I haven't gotten up since I sat down to write.
Once I get up, I'm afraid I might
Not want to write anymore; something will be amiss
But motherfuck, I really have to piss. Fuck this.

And now I'm motherfucking blank again.
I can only fucking think of one more fucking thing to say:

Thanks to whatever the fuck it is,
Inside me, beyond me,
Within me, without me,
That allows me to lose myself and find myself
In motherfucking words.

And thanks to anyone who might be reading this shit.
I could say that the writing is enough, and in a way, it fucking is.

But often, what fucking keeps me going
Is the possibility that someone might fucking read this,
Or that somebody might fucking hear it,
Now, or later, or after I'm dead,
And might fucking like it,
Or be fucking inspired by it,
Or maybe just appreciate the momentary diversion,
Or whatever the fucking motherfucking fuck.

So thank you, if you've gotten this far.
Whenever and wherever and whoever the fuck you are.

It's wrong to say I can't fucking do it without you: I can.
But I don't think I would.
So fucking thanks.


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