You call this an honors thesis? A collection of pretty pink poems by Dave Rothfuss

Abstract:

This is a collection of poetry straight out of my twisted mind. No, I did not live

under power lines as a child, and my mom has never admitted to smoking crack while she

was pregnant with me. Should you find this collection at all insulting, please accept my

most insincere and condescending apologies. If you are at all prudish or easily offended,

go ahead and set it down now in favor of the latest issue of Better Homes and Gardens. I

hear they have a fantastic new article about tulips. I could continue this abstract with an extremely biased and self congratulating

literary analysis of my work. I could even use big words, like metaphysical relationship

and ironic reflection on society, in order to make myself sound really smart and deep, but

I’m not going to. That would be a waste of your time and my energy. All that I ask is

that you read on, have fun, and keep in mind that everything in here is a joke, except for

when I’m serious.

Table of contents:

1. Pretty pink poem 2. Sonnet on sonnets 3. Dust 4. Life is a joke 5. Ego is hungry 6. Ego takes over 7. Deep philosophy 8. Socializing 9. Bureaucratic Revolutionary 10. My Hero 11. Leaving her house 12. Leaving her house, Part II 13. Lover’s leap 14. Sexism 15. Undying love 16. Hide this poem under your bed, next to your pornos 17. Bird 18. Cloudy day at the beach 19. Cookies 20. Nervous girl 21. The joy of spite 22. The wanna-be muse 23. Luck 24. Children starve 25. Go to the alley 26. Mr. Flipout drives home 27. Mr. Flipout goes to market 28. Country hospitality 29. Untitled 30. Meditation 31. God is 32. At church 33. Theological arguments 34. Second coming 35. Poem # 903,417

1 Pretty Pink Poem I could write a poem, pretty and pink. Everyone would love it, ooooh’s and aaaaah’s, an occasional coochie-coo.

We could tie a ribbon to it,

give it a scratch beneath

its cute little poetic chin,

bring it to the picnic,

show it to Grandma.

Actually, I wrote one once. It’s just that I locked it up in the shed out back. No sunlight and a puddle of antifreeze.

Feed it an occasional wet cigarette. When I let it out the children are scared.

2 Sonnet on Sonnets

The form controls every line that I write I keep my thoughts shallow like M.T.V, as long as it’s rhyming, it can be trite. Form may be grueling, but now I can see ten syllables give readers orgasms. Men cream their pants from this written handjob, while women read, then break out in spasms. I, by the way, find a corner and sob, the pleasure I’ve caused makes me feel dirty. I give it out to anyone who reads, poem’s used up like whores over thirty. Keep a copy for your sexual needs. Ten beats per line make the language so rich, It’s hot and sexy, now say my name, bitch.

3 Dust

An old man sits on a plastic wooden bench,

twisting his beard in long, sad loops

as he watches his favorite pet slinky

race up the steep slope of the mountain road,

kicking up swirls of dust with each flip.

This cloud drifts down through the adobe village,

past an old lady scrubbing away at a porcelain ashtray,

her knuckles white and swollen with arthritis.

The dust floats through the lone stoplight,

and does a double take at a sunbathing El Camino.

A seductive look is returned by its sparkling headlights.

The dust whips around the rusty car,

and the two sloppily fornicate.

Their kids come out confused, just like you.

4 Life is a joke

If you don’t get it, the joke’s on you.

Sometimes it’s funny, like when you drop your ice cream cone

but someone gives you another one, and then you go off skipping through a meadow, holding hands and laughing. Other times it’s not so funny, like this one: ‘Ha ha, I just burned down your house, along with everything inside of it, including your children.

Ha ha, get it?’

Ouch! That one bombed worse than Grandma-sex jokes at a nursing home.

Silly life, always crossing the line. It should be censored.

5. Ego is Hungry

FEED ME says Ego, dragging me to the weight room. Now grunt like a madman, look in the mirror and flex, make veins pop out of your neck.

Yeah, those chicks want you, you stud muffin.

I mute him before I crush myself with the weights he tells me to lift. Fridays, during nap time, his incessant bitching drags me out of bed like cartoons on a Saturday morning. Shots, he says. Feed me booze. I give him one to shut him up. More, damnit. Quickly now, I’m hungry. You can handle it,

you’re a tough guy. Count them, tell your friends how many you’ve had, tack on a few extras as a license to pinch asses

and yell like a redneck at a monster truck rally. He’s just trying to excuse himself when I make an ass out of myself.

We go out, and he leads the way. Go for the hot girl, he insists. I don’t care if she has the personality of a urine stained wall,

she makes ME look sweet. Libido agrees. I am outvoted.

6. Ego takes over

Through gentle encouragement and loving cultivation, the ego grows and grows, suddenly so big it dominates.

I become so damn fantastic, everyone should serve me, including me. “Hey Me, give me a damn massage.”

But I can’t, I’m too cool to give massages. Who do I think I am, my bitch?

I want to get my name tattooed on my ass to signify my undying devotion to me, but I can’t. That would hurt the thing I love most and deface what I find most beautiful.

I am in love with myself, but I can’t have me. I’m too good, so I’m not worthy. I’m breaking my fucking heart. I deeply long for myself, and could certainly have me if I only said the right words. (I am me, I get what I want) But I am far too proud to beg.

Perhaps I will slip me a Mickey and take advantage of myself, then brag to all my friends about how I had my way with me, the little slut.

7. The philosophy that all basic human actions are motivated by the simple fact that every woman wants me, and every man wants to be me. Notice how she rolled her eyes? She wants me so bad,

it disgusts her. See, she’s running away now. Can’t handle all the sexual tension- I thought she might explode. Now look, all her friends are laughing at me, with those seductive giggles. That’s right, ladies, I’m the one you want, Don’t be shy now, come’ere, pinchy pinchy. Ouch! Now her boyfriend is kicking my ass. He must believe in the ancient caveman philosophy that if you bash in someone’s head, you can obtain all of their powers.

8. Socializing

Multiple shots chased with beers. Go to a party. Beer. Beer. Shotgun a beer, but spill it

all over pants, giving the appearance of pissing oneself. Beer. Go to a bar. Dance like

Michael Jackson with a firecracker up his ass. Shot of god knows what. Augment

aforementioned stain by actually losing control of bladder. Beer. See hot girl. Grab hot

girl's breasts. Do not let go until lifeless fingers are pried away after being knocked

unconscious with a pool stick. Wake up in jail spooning with 240 pounder named Bubba.

You made a friend!

9.

Bureaucratic Revolutionary

My people, join together and rise! We must unite as one and crush the injustice that holds us down. Just be sure to have the revolutionary

application form on my desk by 4 pm, sharp. Black ink only, please.

No longer will we stand for this oppression! A new day is dawning, for everyone who includes the correct processing code, to be printed in the upper left hand corner of section X-J 17, addendum 4. If you do not know your 9 digit code, a preliminary pass code will be given by the Office of Revolutionary Services. After the three week waiting period, this code may be exchanged at the Bureau of Insurgency.

for the finalized code. Together we can change the world,

as long as your cover sheets are in the proper format.

10.

My Hero

Not a bird, not a plane, she flew in,

cape flapping against her spandex hero-suit,

like a flag in the wind.

She didn’t use her X-ray vision,

shoot webs out of her fingers,

or, quite fortunately,

turn into a hulking green monster.

Instead, she used her superhuman powers

to perch gently on my chest,

run her fingers through my hair,

capture my pain,

experience it herself,

and make it go away,

at least for the moment.

My sympathetic superhero.

11.

Leaving her house

I step outside,

where the sun shines

and the birds sing

just for me.

Using forty-seven facial muscles

to hold back my smile.

No need to rub it in

to all the lonely people.

Conscious effort with each stride

just to maintain control

of my own strutting legs.

All twenty-one years

of stoic manhood training

at work to restrain myself

from skipping like a schoolgirl.

12.

Leaving her house, part II. Head down, I walk out,

slamming the door. That isn’t enough, I should piss on it. Tires squeal like pigs in a slaughter house. I inhale the burnt rubber, hoping to numb myself.

Barreling down the road like an under-sexed rhino,

I look out for small animals. I want to run over a bunny. At home, I deal with

that punkass wall.

13.

Lover’s leap

Hand in hand, we came to a ravine.

Her words, kisses, dreams, told me

‘It’s OK, go ahead and jump.’

I was in mid-air,

she peered over the edge,

got scared,

turned around and walked away.

I fell,

wracking myself on jagged rocks

the whole way down.

14.

Sexism

The feminist movement has taught me not to objectify women. Understandable, but life would be much easier if we did. If women were trophies, We could show them off and brag. If roses, we could appreciate their beauty, then throw them out when they wilt. Baseball cards, trade them with our friends, three or four backup pinch-hitters for the Babe’s rookie card. If women were chainsaws, we could pull them out in the morning, to deal with the wood. But society has trained me well. I will treat women with respect, and drink five nights a week.

15.

Undying love

I worked hard for the undying love. Spent money, acted nice all the time. I earned it,

so it’s mine now, damnit. The best thing is, it’s undying- I no longer have to worry about it. It’s not like it’s going to die!

I keep mine locked up in a box, so it can’t escape.

I used to store it under my bed, but the little bastard kept whimpering, so I moved it to the basement.

If I catch another one, I’ll put them together and watch them fight.

The winner gets to do my laundry.

16. Hide this poem under your bed, next to your porno’s.

In all my years of being a dirty bastard,

I have learned that you cannot go too far. No matter how far you go, you can always be worse. For example: When I joke about rape,

people are shocked and disgusted. But at least I mentioned a girl, and not a farm animal (Oh yeah, you want me, you little piggy slut? No? Well try to stop me.)

Ewww, they say, that’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard, stay away from my daughter.

But that’s nothing! There weren’t even any naked midgets looking on and cheering, spanking my naked ass with a Jesus Christ blowup doll.

Say I’ve gone too far, try it. I’ll dress the swine up like my Grandma.

17.

Bird

What’s up buddy? Good to see you.

Ya know, it’s been a little while.

You didn’t stick around,

while the rest of us were suffering

through the bitter fucking winter.

Nope, you just flew your happy ass

right on down to Mexico

where you chilled on the beach

with your chipper little friends.

Now you’re back, chirpin’ away,

prancin’ around on my roof

like nothing ever happened.

I see how you are, just fair weather.

Not a true friend,

like my good buddy the cockroach…

18.

Cloudy Day at the Beach

The sun is covered. So are the bikinis. I sit in a plastic chair, bored.

A child, outtie belly-button

and G.I. Joe swimming trunks, splashes in the frigid water, high-pitched laughter screeching like nails on a chalkboard.

How come he gets to have all the fun?

There’s only so much joy in the world, and he’s taking more than his fair share.

The kid jumps over the waves like they’re Olympic hurdles.

He needs a dose of reality.

He won’t ever be in the Olympics, probably won’t even make the trials. At the very best, he’ll end up slaving away at a dead end job to support an ever-fattening wife who curbs her own bitching

by swiping holes in his credit cards. Poor kid doesn’t realize this, so

I write him a memo, tie it to a rock

and throw it at his head.

19.

Cookies

Tonight I will eat an entire box of cookies. Scarf them down as if I were blue and lived on Sesame Street. After all, I earned them. Drank a sixer of Bud- recycled it. That’s worth a cookie. Walked by an empty, running car -cute Toyota, red and sporty- didn’t even steal it. Three cookies. A jogger passed me, pale, skinny legs flailing like the arms

of a drowning child. Didn’t even trip him. Now I’m not sure about the exact value of the skinned knee and the chipped tooth that I saved him, but it has to be at least seven or eight cookies.

When they’re all gone, I’m gonna make a mime scream.

20.

Nervous Girl

A girl waits for the test chomping down on the pencil between her bleached white teeth. ‘Don’t be nervous,’ I tell her, ‘It’s not going to kill you. It’s not going to kill your friends, You won’t even lose a finger. The worst that could possibly happen is you’ll fail the test,

go on to fail the class, have an F on your resume, sticking out like a wart on a model. Completely unemployable, your only hope will be to develop a freakish abnormality. Perhaps you could grow a beard, or melt one of your hands into the shape of a stop sign. Then the circus will hire you. You’ll have the means to support your $300 a week coke habit, with plenty left over for an occasional meal of Saltine crackers, dipped in whatever kind of soup the cafeteria threw out on that particular day. Don’t be nervous.’ All this, just to see if her teeth are harder than her pencil.

21.

The Joy of Spite

It kinda tingles as I hold back the child-like voice that wants to rush out and squeal:

Told you so.

Told you told you told you told you told you. I was right. Me me me me me, right.

You, wrong. We coulda done it my way. It woulda been glorious, like a stripper dipped in gold, diamond studs for nipples. But we didn’t, we did it your way, and it sucked. Sucked like a handjob from Edward Scissorhands. I still haven’t figured out what the joy is.

22.

The Wanna-be Muse

Few drinks, I run my mouth. ‘So I’m a poet’, I say. You think you deserve a poem. ‘I’m inspirational,’ you say.

Indeed.

Simply by saying that

you are inspirational, you are inspirational? Do daffodils bloom the instant you pass them? Does a herd of butterflies follow you around, kissing your nose with their fluttering wings? Do birds chirp your name and bring you shiny presents? What about wet dreams? How many wet dreams have you caused?

Do you even have any stalkers? No?

Well stalkers are poets who can’t write.

You must not be inspirational.

23. Luck

“Good Luck,” I told him. Damnit! What was I thinking? I needed that luck.

What’s so great

that he’s going to use it for? It’s not like he has AIDS.

It’s not like he’s going to prison, and even if he were, it’s not like luck would save his pudgy white ass.

If anything, he’ll probably take

my hard earned luck and win some stupid stuffed giraffe at the county fair.

I, meanwhile,

need to get laid. I’m the one trying to conquer the world.

I’m the one who really, really needs to get past that damn pink ghost on the third level of Miss Pacman..

24. Children Starve

Not my problem, I have toenails to clip.

Somewhere, a man writhes in agony, saliva foaming from his lips as 14000 electric volts shoot through his testicles.

Doesn’t bother me, I have bigger worries. You see, I have this

little cuticle-thingy hanging from my second toe. I’m trying to pick at it, but I’m afraid that, under the worst circumstances, I could possibly lose a piece of hardened, yellow callus.

Children slave away in sweatshops until their fingers bleed.

Then they get fired for bleeding. I wouldn’t want blood on my clothes.

Wives are beaten, puppies eaten, baby seals clubbed, midgets kicked, little, fat, smelly kids taunted and excluded.

Balloons are popped.

Something needs to be done about this.

25. Go to the alley.

You can stab each other for all I care. Just not here. You’d bleed on my steps. So go to the alley.

In the alley, you can smoke anything you want, even share some with the kids. Want to kick a puppy? Decorate your face with a few new razor slashes? Give your bratty daughter that beatin’ she’s been asking for, ever since she complained about her french fries? Fine with me, but do it in the alley, where the customers won’t see it. There, you can dress up like biker ballerinas, and do things I wouldn’t want my Grandma to read about.

But here, we adhere to an exemplary moral code. So do it in the alley, away from my conscience.

26. Mr. Flipout Drives Home

The road stretches ahead of him endlessly,

tongue shriveling in his mouth like a seal in the desert. A single, warm, lifesaving piece of gum sits among the Kleenex in his pocket.

The gum is glorious. It emits spearmint freshness like grace from Heaven. It is the best thing since Star Trek.

But the gum is unattainable. His hands grip the wheel, 10’ and 2’, eyes frozen straight ahead

like a Ritalin fed 3rd grader. To get the gum would risk everything. He could lose control of the car, end up traveling forty yards backwards in the grill of a Mack truck, airbag punching him in the face while the seat belt chokes him. He sees his own tongue

slide down the windshield, blood marking a trail above it.

It is not worth it. He does not want the gum, it is soaked in urine.

27.

Mr. Flipout Goes to Market

He picks up a can of peas from their usual spot

in aisle 4, next to the green beans and directly below the carrots. He places it in the far left corner of his empty cart, where it belongs. The wheels squeak like a dying chickadee as he pushes it through the aisle, past the creamed corn, artichokes, asparagus, tomatoes, beets and… sweet corn??? What the hell is sweet corn doing all the way over here? Clearly it belongs with the other corn. Is there any logical reason for them to be separated? If corn isn’t even in its right place, what can he count on in this topsy-turvy world? What’s next? Stuffing in the ice cream freezer? Peanut butter in mislabled jam jars? Pudding filled bananas? Ravioli laced with anthrax? He had eaten their ravioli once. Mr. Flipout goes to the hospital and checks himself in.

28.

Country hospitality

I entered the chain’s radius, smelling tasty, so the dog had itself a bite of my thigh. The Klan folk apologized as the mother cleaned my wound with scalding antiseptic. They had not trained their dog to see color.

29.

Live hard Have fun Die young. Kinda like a rockstar, even if you only play the harp.

You won’t have to deal with the problems of your irresponsible life (unless you consider being dead a problem).

Of course, sometime in there, you’re going to want kids, little mini you’s, bounce ‘em on your knee, teach ‘em how to get chicks and kick ass,

hope they find all of the old dreams that you lost under piles of stupid, brutal reality.

Reality is shit, so leave it to your kids to dig through that pile.

Just don’t fall for them. Kids might make you want to stick around long after your party’s over.

Before you know it you’re eighty and immobile, watching your kid’s kids, their lives your sitcom.

You can’t even get off your decrepit ass to change the channel.

30. Meditation A rock may rest on the ground, rained on walked on spat upon. Nothing to anyone, unless they trip on it.

But I can hold the rock in my mind make it glow become the rock smooth my rough edges and roll down the road of my dreams, past regrets pebbles and daisies on the side. Either that, or I could smoke some rocks to ease my pain.

31. God is

The water-logged carrot chunk stuck in the scum-filled drain of my kitchen sink. He emanates heavenly energy so intense, it would blow your mind if you could only detect it.

No, you heathen,

God is not the half-digested kidney bean

floating in my bile,

or the dustball in the corner.

He is not the Brooke Burke poster,

the girl in the bikini next to her,

or the lint between my toes.

He is definitely not captain Kirk,

from Star Trek, Deep Space Nine.

What’s that you say?

Captain Kirk wasn’t in Deep Space Nine? Well I don’t give a fuck, he’s not my God.

32. At church

The candles barely flicker in the stagnant air. Their holy light reflects off the golden cross and glints in your eye.

You sit in the back row, trying to fight off thoughts of Jack Daniels and pornography. Oooooh, the reverse cowgirl. Nicely tanned porn-star ass sounds like angels clapping as it smacks up against you.

The golden cross needs diamonds to save your wretched soul.

33. Theological arguments

“Blah, blah, blah,” says the

man who denies evolution,

thumping his Bible.

“Yadda yadda yadda,” I respond,

quoting the Discovery Channel.

(Television doesn’t lie.)

My heathen head is set straight

as he whacks me with a Cross.

He was right. He did not evolve.

34.

Second Coming

The messiah is coming. All signs indicate he’s right on his way.

Have a drink while we wait, any moment now.

Here, have another. Say, did you see the ball game last night? Ninth inning homer to win it, miraculous finish, really.

Oh, yes, the messiah? Real soon, the prophecy doesn’t lie, it’s written in ink.

Pop these pills while we wait. Wash them down with another drink.

Don’t worry about adverse drug reactions, the messiah will be here soon, he fixes all.

35. Poem # 903,417

Oh, I don’t have that many, you say? Well, that’s just your opinion, which you are entitled to,

no matter how ignorant and close-minded it may be.

On second thought, you might not actually be entitled to your opinion, since your warped viewpoint couldn’t technically be classified as an “opinion”.

You see, my opinion is the only one that matters because in my universe, it represents pure and absolute truth.

Perhaps you think that your opinion represents pure and absolute truth in your universe, but how do I know if your universe even exists? Your saying that it exists is simply you stating your opinion, which we’ve already determined to be meaningless.

So how do I prove to you that my universe exists? I don’t have to. That would be me appealing to your opinion, which does not matter, and may not even exist. I know that my universe exists- that is my opinion, the only one that matters.

So go make me a sandwich.