Tuesday

Pretzel Girl

I guess I will add a poem once a day or so that amuses or offends me.  Here is one.

It’s not sex, just too much entropy
 
The air is poisoned,
so you desire women with
messy unwashed hair.
A desire to wrestle
with their hair ribbons
and sunglasses, bracelets,
scarves, and necklaces.
To consume all this junk,
to lift women from the
streets of Montparnasse
like cheese fondue.
You hate yourself a little.
 
You hate yourself more as a Parisian
object of desire turns out to be a poli sci major
from Kutztown State, “that’s in Pee A!”
 
You no longer know what you desire.
You no longer want naked women.
 
You only want to make them naked.
To un-accessorize them, unravel them
and iron out the wrinkles of attitude.