Pretty woman walking down the street, pretty pretty pretty pretty Peggy Sue, you know I love you, girl, and I want you and I need you: You are my baby doll, my little surfer girl.
American woman, oh you mysterious creature, you are the Chief Executive Officer of an arms manufacturer. You live in the woods; you sleep in a glass coffin. I miss the feel of your lips against mine. But you turned me into a wild beast: I became a rhinoceros, or something with bristly cat hair (it's hard to remember). You turned my mariners into multitudes of swine.
You accomplished your sorcery by snapping a branch from a tree and then waving it like a wand. You spoke with an accent that enchanted me, while at sunset we strolled on the beach together hand in hand.
I followed you to the end of the Earth. I went overboard, and you laughed.
Like a junkyard dog wearing a personal flotation device in case the snow melts too quickly, because tomorrow is the Winter Solstice, I tuck you into bed.
Why do you create life only to destroy it? Actually, now that I think about it more deeply, you do not straightway break things after you make things: not usually, anyway. You give most things a spell in which to exist. A wrinkle of time. To each thing its season. You put a spell on me, too.
You have long hair. Good hair. Brunette or blonde hair. Wavy or straight hair.
Hats in hat-boxes... sun hats... tweed Clodagh hats in grey herringbone... or our favorite: a thick warm hat with earflaps (your sheared mink fur Cossack hat with fox fur trim — that Russian winter hat known as “ushanka”).
Also we can go for a ride in my car; because you have nice hair and a nice body, and I have a nice car. You are my God, my shepherd to whom I trust my being: I have nice wool, you have nice hair; and we're cruising down the highway in my Little Deuce Coupe. Yes, my Cherry Cherry Coupe. You're a Car Crazy Cutie, O LORD my God.
You make such fine rolling plains for me to graze in. I love to contemplate your leaves of grass. Your rod and your staff give me comfort: for, when I wander too far away from your presence, you tap my side, or gently hook me back onstage. Sometimes you're a bit too rough on me, but that's OK: I have a forgiving disposition.
Why do you pose there in your evening dress baiting nations into war, century after century? Do you never tire of conflict? I'd imagine that an eon of peace would please your inner epicure. But what do I know.
Whenever I want to be with you and experience your charms, all I need to do is dream. To others, you are the candy-colored clown they call the Sandman; but, to me, you are the elusive mistress of the evening: Lilith Elohim. We merge in the selfsame dwelling of possibility: I am yours, you are mine: we break the barriers of blood, breath, and brain; for ours is not a mere sharing of wine via twofanged neckbites; we also inspire the identical pneuma and manifest AUTOMIND. Such fusion occurs anytime; it is intermittent yet perpetual. And there's zero trouble: we're dreaming our life away.
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Who makes beauty? Where does it come from? Does anyone DESERVE to be beautiful?
Some beauty is made, is striven for, is an accomplishment. Some beauty is natural, an inheritance from who-knows-where.
I feel that I myself SHOULD'VE been born handsome; that handsomeness is my right, of which I was wrongfully deprived. I'm a king dethroned, suffering the paradox of being exiled within my own country. — Why was I born with this pair of horns on my forehead, a barbed tail, one mismatched hoof, and gold cat-eyes? Plus glowing red flesh. And everything I touch gets anointed with perfume, because I exude bliss tactilely... also aurally; in fact, every other way but visually. The entire visual world is a personal insult; tho I'm secretly in love with it.
A man is born so strong that he can gain whatever he wants by way of physical violence. A woman is born so attractive that she can gain whatever she wants through aesthetic allure. The strong man meets the pretty woman. If he wants her, and she wants him, they both get what they want. And if neither wants the other, they both leave the scene after exchanging a polite nod. But what if one wants one, yet this want is not mutual? There are only two ways that this could play out:
First, if the woman wants the man, but the man is indifferent, then the man walks away while the woman weeps — end of story. On the other hand, if the man wants the woman, but she does not want him, then he places his "might makes right" card onto the table, and the scene ends tragically.
Why does this world's design permit the man to act directly in his own interest, whereas the woman must depend upon the luck of indirect aims effecting others to act in her interest? In other words, why is the strong man's will able to dictate the outcome of any episode in reality, plainly and simply; whereas the woman must activate an intricate network of forces to funnel desired objects heartward?
And why is the world designed with mismatched love-interests? Why do some lovers lose their lovers; and why do some never find them?
And why must a child always come chasing after a ball that has bounced into the busy street, amid fast-moving traffic? Why was our world designed to provide a reckless driver who cannot stop his vehicle in time and thus runs over the ball, leaving it deflated? And only by a hairsbreadth does this driver miss hitting the child, so the parents and all other onlookers feel a sharp pang of suspense and then relief. But now everyone lives in fear of sundry awful variations of this bad event happening in the future. Why was our world designed like this?
Perhaps the world was NOT designed at all. Perhaps every choice an individual makes contributes to the ever-shifting Given; so that THE WAY THINGS ARE keeps changing, slowly and surely, for better or worse. But I'm naïve enough to wish that we would just establish paradise and lock it in permanently.
And why is it considered undesirable to spoil oneself with luxuries and become soft and fat from eating sweets and drinking booze? Why do rugged and self-reliant individuals say "Don't use air-conditioning to cool your enclosed environment when it's hot and humid outside, but instead stand in a patch of thistles and savor the pain. One should also avoid wearing comfortable garments." — What!? No way! I love soft raiment, ideal temperatures, sweetmeats and liquor. And never will I leave my house without wearing my black leather jacket and snakeskin boots. I drive my Harley-Davidson motorcycle everywhere; and I wear my sunglasses at night.
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