"pretzel" poems
Danny O'Dare, the dancin' bear,
Ran away from the County Fair,
Ran right up to my back stair
And thought he'd do some dancin' there.
He started jumpin' and skippin' and kickin',
He did a dance called the Funky Chicken,
He did the Polka, he did the Twist,
He bent himself into a pretzel like this.
He did the Dog and the Jitterbug,
He did the **** and the Bunny Hug.
He did the Waltz and the Boogaloo,
He did the Hokey-Pokey too.
He did the Bop and the Mashed Potata,
He did the Split and the See Ya Later.
And now he's down upon one knee,
Bowin' oh so charmingly,
And winkin' and smilin'--it's easy to see
Danny O'Dare wants to dance with me.
10.4k
Please don’t call me beautiful
when your hands are between my legs,
and god forbid you say it as a seg-way
between you’re so hot
and my caution, your response
you’re sure you don’t want to?
I’m pretty sure the way my body looks,
nineteen and stress-infused with an Oreo belly
isn’t really what you pictured beneath my blouse,
and I’m positive you didn’t listen
to the story about my dad and the bad prom dress
because you cared. It was just sentiment. You said it was beautiful,
but really you wanted me to believe the act
like a description in the Playbill
and ride that trust all the way until the curtain dropped.
Please don’t call me beautiful
when the word ******* is before it
or if we are ******* because making love
is for married couples and you don’t even want me
sticking around for the ****** sunrise that peers
underneath your shade every morning.
Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m crying—
crack me open and watch the colors bleed
like a painting that hasn’t dried. Admire
the light that peaks through the clear parts
like a windowpane, no blinds.
Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m laughing,
when I’m reading my favorite part of a book,
when I’m stuffing my face with peanut-butter
pretzel bites and I haven’t washed my sheets in weeks,
and I’ll know you can’t be lying
because I’ve listened to the waves your heart makes
when you’re sleeping and I’ve called your smile
to the surface many times when you’ve tried
to deflect it back inside. You’ll know that
and you’ll know I’m beautiful.
Call me beautiful
when you’re not even trying.
Call me beautiful when you’re by yourself
and the smell of my hair is still on your pillow,
or the memory of how dumb I sounded
singing my favorite song breaks your heart back
to the best little pieces.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC
She walked barefoot in the desert and wore desert boots to bed.
My baby was topsy turvy dipsy swervy crossed up curvy clean out of her head.
A cast iron face that kept the truth bound and shackled.
Deep inside her head.
Self deception was her stock in trade and every choice she ever made was reasoned Wearing blinders.The snake that ate her tail
Her logic was.
Circular in nature no ending or beginning. Which guaranteed her winning
Regardless.
But only in her twisty wheelhouse.
Crazy as aa ********* rat.
Twisting facts into tasty pastry.
Seving them up on shiny ware.
Neither here nor either there
Calculating slipknot tension
Telling tales too tall to mention
The daughter of the pretzel maker
Part deluded.Rabid faker.
Pretzel logic
Pretzel minded.
Twisted now and twisted later.
Down the road I go.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
Your bedroom is always so dark, an empty void.
I could really use this line as a metaphor to describe my heart, but I won't.
I'm not fond of metaphors to tell you the truth, and you never understand them anyway.
Your bedroom is always so dark, but not quite pitch black.
There's an artificial cerulean glow coming from your clock's display, which is a tad large for my taste.
And to be honest, it irritates me some, I like the red alarms quite more.
Your bedroom has a very plain bed, where we like to snuggle.
I curl up with you to intensify my persuasions - it's no secret - and I'm okay with it for now.
I'm usually the spoon and you're the noodle, but we both agree that the pretzel is that much more amazing.
Your bedroom has a very plain bed, on which we amaze each other.
The single blanket we lay under, sometimes over, is covered in me, because of you.
I always laugh a little, and think that you sleep with me every night, even when I'm not in your room.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 9:54 AM UTC
Damaged trust and marriage schemes
Held hostage in each others' dreams
Pinned to walls but flailing still
Forgotten values, failing wills
True love waits, we tell ourselves
True love gladly stacks the shelves
True love sets conditions and
True love does the dishes and
Slowly, slowly, we forget
Just why we're here and who we met
Another notch in wrinkled frowns
Where I keep getting lost and found
In roller-coaster ups and downs
I'm lost and lost and lost and found
Missing flights and toxic tongues
Catharsis found in tar-filled lungs
I lost myself in who I wasn't
And in what true love does and doesn't
Not quite gaslit, not quite safe
Playing back the ancient tape
We envy death for constancy-
Besmirching our own consciences
We forgo our emoluments
Too traumatized by precedents
But hush you tell me, no one knows
The pretzel-bending ways we grow
Forever twisting round and round
Lost and lost and lost and found
Now freaking out, now breaking down
Now glaciers found in evening gowns
Now agonizing 'Who am I?'s
Now dying fire in your eyes
At last the sunset settles debts
We tally up our last regrets
Relenting to incessant ghosts
Abandoning essential posts
'Til all that's left is loss and hurt
It burns and burns and burns and burns
And now I choke on orders filled
And mourn alone the youth we killed
I scrape the comb across my nettles
Pricking feelings, bleeding mettle
Finally free from ups and downs,
I find myself on solid ground
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
Incongruous by nature
wrapped in ignominious twine
I eat sushi and a 12 dollar slice of cheese cake
Chug two old english and spend the night at the porcelain throne both ends screaming
staring into eyes rapt with fear
all eyes are rapt with fear
Of what then? Death? Shame?
in the rubber belts and fulcrum arms and cogs of the melting ***
all perspectives have value
and the decadence signified in a haircut or a cadillac is nothing more
than the words on the bathroom walls
or little brown note books
Clarity is for saps
Flourish dans l'entropy
Ou mourir dans la peur
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
teardrop stone
arrowhead mother
copper-red veins flecked with crystalline dust
[iridescent]
[irrelevant]
you are just some fat piece of flagstone-
broke off corner of some stone paver-
seated in an empty flowerpot beside 30+lbs. of rusted chain in an old screwtop pretzel jar
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
Pretzel Logic
always counter intuitive
with a twisted sense of fate
explicitly constructed
how much longer will you wait
the axiom of choice
the scenario of doubt
with random intervention
how can you bring about
a clear and precise result
with no deviance in action
probability of predictions
spinning wheels with no traction
the answers so concise
in udder chaos results you find
without collaboration
such an eery creepy mind
a scavenger of darkness
deep down thoughts somewhat toxic
no wavering in directions
manipulative pretzel logic
Gomer Lepoet...
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
It has been about an hour now.
That careless *****
who talks whenever she knows she shouldn't
and never has any useful presence,
has been dancing her foot around a pretzel
she dropped earlier
when she was chewing at a volume
that could be heard across the Grand Canyon.
(I picked the Grand Canyon because she chews like a mule.)
She hasn't even noticed she dropped her food.
She was too busy texting and playing with her hair.
I just want to see her foot stomp on that pretzel.
I know if she does, she wont even know she did.
She is too stuck up to realize that she is dropping food that someone else could eat.
I could eat it!
She didn't even ask me if I wanted a pretzel
before she unknowingly dropped one on the ground.
I wouldn't be angry if she just gave me a pretzel.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
We're all walking cliche's,
So what's the big deal?
I can wear a beanie and a gay pride tee shirt and moccasins,
And listen to Neutral Milk Hotel,
And talk about feminism and politics.
Do not kiss me with your mustang convertible and your ****** piercings.
I am a taken woman.
But I will take your free drugs.
Thank you very much.
Stop mourning me,
My arrogance should never have been a turn on.
Pretzel crisps, tattoos, and student loans.
It's hard walking down the boulevard of broken dreams,
And bumping into all the other lonely souls.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
I was once told
That to find an attractive title
For something you wrote
Or drew,
Just name it something random.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 6:33 AM UTC
the last soft pretzel has been sold
he puts the mustard jar
......back into the cart
and "home" he rolls
------------
there was an old lady who lived in Sheboygan
she had so many children
she moved to new york city
and got on welfare
-----------
he was a "podigy"
he coulda been jesus
but he decided to be
........................lebron james
---------
gentle breezes
the bicycling boy
yellow shirt against the park's greenery
and the deep blue sky
--------------
growing unto night!
the angelic sense of "her nurturing"
all in her EYE
---------------
an obvious "sentence"
the world's been imploded!
(and is an ugly worn out place!)
-------------
the towers have fallen
oly homeland security
on the c.i.a.
watching us now
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 11:58 AM UTC
there was this girl i used to know
she was like this
skateboard girl
tangly hair girl
homemade pretzel girl
fire escape girl
cigarette girl
different when it was just us girl
tough girl
tomboy girl
save the animals girl
god knows where she is now girl
mazel tov, ******* girl
god, i was so hooked on you girl
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
The bookbag leans
on the aluminum column.
The column is blurry,
someone cleans it
only when their are inspections.
The bookbag has been sitting
collecting the sounds
that leave the Staten Island Ferry
by foot,
for God knows how long.
When you get off,
everyone looks ahead,
but out of the corners
an entire black sea of iris'
rotates to the aluminum column.
It might be a bomb.
The girl behind the Ms. Anne's counter
is skinny almost,
but her *** is too big,
almost.
Munching on the semi-soft pretzel,
you think about empty calories
and the corners of your mouth get sticky.
The Ferry won't be back,
for another thirty or so
minutes.
Somebody takes out a guitar,
and starts playing
a little Dylan. People
form a circle around him.
This is the American Pow-wow.
You reach in your breastpocket
for the Marlboros,
but you can't smoke here,
and an official looking person
squints at you,
just to drive the point home.
******* smoking laws,
some places just feel good.
This place with all it's ringy sounds,
like the guitar,
and phones beeping with texts
and babies,
deep fathers,
and high mothers.
Just to puff and puff
and push that sugar down
with nicotine would really
up this feeling of comradery.
A guy with a gold-plated shield
on his breastpocket and a blue-button down.
Walks over to the bag.
The iris' move,
people keep talking but
they're just saying words
to make it look like they're talking.
By the time the ferry
rings in baritone,
the bag is gone;
the column is still blurry;
the man is still playing his guitar,
but there's an emptiness.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 8:58 PM UTC
She had a tongue that could open a wine bottle.
Razor-sharp articulation.
A fine art, some might say.
Living sentences on a knifes-edge.
It started in a unblunted manner,
The force hit smacked splintered minds like a hammer.
Honed in cuspate motions,
Incisively smashing the nail on the head.
She wasn’t wrong often.
Vivacious wit vivid oscillating witch,
some might say.
Not I.
I followed in the downstream of her resonance.
A quivering wreck,
soaked from head to toe in her libretto.
She marched in stilettos,
locomotive tip-toe motion,
devotion to the traverse.
Deviating as s he ambulated across lurid cobbled paths.
How she manages, alas.
Evades my comprehension.
She had this brunt agitation,
as if,
she couldn’t hear the words you say to her.
Maybe it was her nescient nature.
A think naive conversant,
If only it was that simple.
Those dimples on her cheeks were like craters in the moon.
That cheesy laugh fractures.
She escaped from Alcatraz,
Caught only by the dereliction,
of her minds conviction.
Infamy lapsed,
as she collapsed in a pretzel of marvellous contortion.
She radiantly turned to stone,
a statuesque stanza.
Cloned in allure,
that never found answers she was looking for.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC
Dark shadows swirl their way into Cabrini Boulevard,
The pigeons rise to scatter as they slowly pass along,
The pretzel seller finds his eyes are misted, caught off-guard.
A subway busker starts to play a doleful Elvis song.
East-Eighty-Third is humming with a thousand urban dreams,
Cold fantasies unfold within the petals of the night;
September ghosts are set adrift on ectoplasmic streams,
With hosts of angels following, in garlands of white light.
Sleep soundly now, New York, let bitterness be washed away,
let sleep's dark poppies dissipate all agonies of mind.
Sentinel wings will guide your mourning dreams towards the day
when sanity will reign over the ways of humankind.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
Gotta have my pops.
Gotta big o'l pretzel.
Gotta sit soon.
Soon I will be ******* Soon I will.
Will I be soon?
**** **** ****
Where's the ****
Go home man. Go the hell home.
Hell, I'm home. Now? Now what?
Yeah... Let's figure it out. ok?
(Puke)
Let it out man... Nahhh. Don't do that unless you're ready.
pshhh. I'm not sure what you're trying to say, but let's do
it again. (puke....puke puke puke.)
Nice nice. Ice that.
That what? Whaaaaaaat?
Don't worry about it mannnnn. It's allllllllll goooood. Good
to me. Good to you. (puke)
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
I'm living in anger, I'm living in pain,
but the evil that befalls me, will have no gain.
it is cynical, and it's words always bear shame.
Oh evil, oh evil, how you blacken my days.
it roars with fire, but looks like an angel.
it's evil deeds, are linked together like a pretzel.
it's hiding it's black side, but showing off jewels.
oh evil, oh evil, you better change your ways.
Every word is a curse, and hurts like a knife.
every sight of its face, adds stress to your life.
every breathe that it takes, shrinks your pretty smile.
Oh evil, oh evil, how you hardly die.
A life with evil, is a dark cross to carry.
its pain and struggles, turn tears into blood.
but one day alone, and one day surely,
oh evil, oh evil, you shall reveal your lies.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
I am the people and the neighborhoods,
the pretzel vendor and the bank president,
the silver spoon child and the child who hungers.
I am public forum and barroom debate,
an investigative reporter and his angry subject,
the jury's patient search for truth,
a silent vigil outside City Hall,
and I can hear, on this humid summer night,
the voice of history's resounding approval.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC
Jesus,
this is just swell,
I'm scrunched again
in 5A.
Hey there
Miss Flight Attendant,
this one's smaller
than the last aircraft.
Can't I get
a complimentary drink
or something else
to make me
feel numb?
I hate being
twisted like a pretzel!
Oh well,
at least there's a window,
that's some consolation!
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 8:12 AM UTC
Today it seems
the oddest thing;
I think my heels
are made up of
springs.
I’m bouncing and happy,
And can’t help
from smiling,
and I wonder
if that’s
got to do with
the fact
That I woke up
next
to you,
Your arm numb
and dripping
my drool.
And it occurred to me, then
that I’ve never seen
a better
looking
man.
Above me with
your arms around me,
your face perfectly
content.
And your blue, blue, blue,
they-make-me-love-you
eyes.
Your energetic thighs.
I can’t help but be rapt
and start gasping
for breath
when we finish;
A puddle of sweat,
my hair,
a wreck,
and you,
looking down on my face.
That arrogant smirk
you wear
like a badge
because I can’t help
that you make my legs shake.
I think I could do this forever.
I think I’d get used to
being that pretzel -
parasitic and bound
to your waist.
I confess; you are
the sexiest man
that’s ever worn
my taste.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
If you're wondering how a
pretzel untwists its self,
it is not by the curls of a lover's
tongue—
nor by the might
of its self
but by the spine of a poet's
meek hands,
unlacing and
embracing
it's curves
and lines.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
She’s talkin to cows again
Cattle candied side
Licorice fence
A mother hen’s
Cherry eggs
Chocolate fudge smears
On her legs
Slide over grape ice pond
Atop frosted clover
Sugared world beyond
Three soft cows before her
Describe the candied world
One says, “I produce chocolate milk just for me
A little bit of strawberry for she
And vanilla for all three”
Smooth Cocoa will flow
Sweetness will fill your pores
A crystal rain pours
Sugared quartz upon
Caramel whirlpools
Nature’s homemade molecules
Blueberry skies drip
Fields of lollipop
Glimmer rainbow sunshine
Sweetest Harvest
Candy wrappers fall
Wind blows them
Over by candy-wax waterfall
Marshmallow hikes
With chocolate pretzel poles
Strands of sugary pink glass fall From Cotton candy clouds
A new farmer’s way to plow
He says, “young lady
Do you vow
Cherish this nutritional place
And make it your Delectable space?”
“I do” she proclaims ~
“To make it mine
I have no shame
Only a request
Of cinnamon I suggest
A form of healing zest
Sprinkled on this candied land
Where you are I so happily stand
A powerful purpose
You will see
Your nose will thank you
I suppose
A Favorite of every herbivore
From a former land I will go no more
An offer of sticky bun
To sweeten the score
From here to the slushie seafloor
Of a confection land adored”
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 8:46 PM UTC
An old florist, dressed in black
Hands a white rose to a guy.
While the beggar pets a stray..
A bicycle falls by.
It’s the westerly winds again...
Rain peeking through the sunless sky…
Though everything is getting moist around..
It’s my heart that’s running dry..
There’ goes the artist’s beret
And the lil girl’s pink umbrella..
A child pays a sixpence..
To the friendly pretzel fella..
The street lamp winks
While it listens to the accordion..
Lovers falling in love again…
While I wait for my old companion
The sea isn’t getting any wetter with the rain…
Though my hands are getting wrinkled and white…
Then the same old man in his mackintosh..
Comes into my old ,weary sight..
We just saw, gave a reserved smile..
Then I cursed the different ways I chose…
Yet he melted all my regrets…
And held out that white rose…
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 5:44 AM UTC
You're such a good ******** detector
But I'm the one that's defective
I can't tell if you're an ally
Or an undercover detective
Cause around these parts
The air is toxic
It's **** or be killed
With a dash of pretzel logic
All we've ever known was apathy
And all we've ever felt was confused
So we popped pills and hit the bottle
Using to avoid feeling used
But you're an artist
You make up stories
I can't tell if I fascinate you
Or if you find me boring
I don't want to be a prop
To occupy your hours
I don't want to be your pet
With you holding all the power
Most of all, I don't want to be manipulated
By the impulses of those that whisper in your ear
I just want friendship reciprocated
I need words that are sincere
So please excuse my insecurities
But you knew what you were getting into
I'm the fragile, broken cargo
Of a bird that never flew
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC