Mysterious Woman

I want to be a mysterious woman.
I want to write mysterious songs.
I want everyone to wonder,
what is she thinking about,
existentialism, nihilism? Wrong.
I am thinking about defrosting my refrigerator,
but I know I could get into a mysterious mood.
Watch me ask the bartender
for a drink he cannot make.
watch me order mysterious foods,
foods even Julia Child cannot pronounce right,
from cookbooks that time has forgot.
Then maybe I will read Crime and Punishment
for fun,
then again, maybe not.
I want to be a mysterious woman,
tantalize you with my come-hither stare.
Maybe it’ll work a little bit better
if you pretend, I’m not wearing underwear.
Pretend I was never a girl scout,
and I never learned how to twirl baton.
Ahhh, I feel a mysterious song
coming on.
I think, I hear, I scream.
I think, I hear, ice cream,
melting
all over
the rock-hard bread
which is stuck to
the chicken parts,
long-since dead.
They’re in a cold box,
within a cold box,
within a warm box,
which is my room.
There’s a ceiling,
there’s a floor,
there’s a wall,
there’s a window.
Look at the moon.
It’s a marble,
it’s a button,
it’s a sequin,
it’s a polka dot.
I said, it’s a marble,
a button,
a sequin,
a polka dot,
stitched into the velvet sky
pocket of Sir Lancelot,
who is riding on Pegasus,
who is fighting with the Pleiades,
who is fighting Cassiopeia,
who is fighting with Hercules,
who is fighting with Betelgeuse,
who is fighting with the Milky Way,
that is stuck to the Birds Eye peas
that is stuck to the ice cube tray
this is stuck to the chicken parts
that is stuck to the rock-hard bread.
Hey, what am I doing here?
I should be home defrosting my refrigerator instead.
But I want to be a mysterious woman.
I hate being so easy to read.
Hey bartender, gimme a light, yeah a Bud Lite,
and a plate of pommes frites, is all I need,
all I need,
all I need,
all I need,
all I need,
all I need,
all I need,
all I need.