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.