Fuck It

Fuck you.

Fuck the state you’re from.

Fuck its college football team.

Fuck every jock that ever got to feel you up under your shirt.

Fuck the three hundred people in your high school’s graduating class.

Fuck your community theatre, the fake Irish bars on your main street,

and your local zoning ordinances.

Fuck your family’s affordable house,

painted in muted and inoffensive tones.

Fuck your white ethnic food festivals.

Fuck your enormous supermarkets.

Fuck the diner massacre that happened thirty years ago

that’s only notable because it’s rare.

Fuck your exacting economic segregation.

Fuck your above ground pools.

Fuck Arby’s.

Fuck the regional band that continues to exist

because of your terrible taste in music.
Fuck your big happy dog

and its big happy owners.

May it never know rent control.

Fuck your outlet mall.

Fuck the love that made you,

that let you believe you could hack it

in a place that mattered

despite having neither the stomach or spite

required.

Fuck Miller High Life.

Fuck your big goofy smile, your sun-soaked freckles

and your common decency.

Fuck your lack of appreciation for bitter jews

on our worst days.

Fuck your competent road workers

and the short waits at your DMV.

Fuck your kindness.

Fuck your originality.

Fuck you for being different

because you used to be exactly the same.

Fuck small-market baseball.

Fuck your non-existent public transportation

and your clean air.

Fuck your stubborn, persistent

skepticism,

your inability to reduce things

to the cartoons they are.

Fuck your warm voice

and the truth it drops,

meticulously laying out what is,

what isn’t,

and what you goddamn well should know by now.

Fuck you,

that I am caught off guard

and for a moment, unashamed,
resentful of the halfway kitsch
my neighbors trade in,
that I would hear you rattle off
every mundane sliver of language,
that my heart would beat a building down
to hear it.