Prince Charming’s Transportation

They tell me Prince Charming’s horse is a mighty black steed who runs like the wind and has no fear. The man that guides the horse is an expert, moving with ease, controlling the wild beast with the slightest movements of his strong, agile body.

He is late.

Oh, I know what you are thinking; typical male, always late, disappointing the girl, but that is not what happened. You see, the horse was showing off how well he could jump, in order to look graceful to a passing filly and, well, he sprained his ankle. The valiant Prince left the steed with a local farmer, hoping to return to collect the animal later.

Having left the house in a haste to come after me, he forgot his wallet and had no money for a new horse or a train ticket. So he is walking. Stupid horse.

Well, actually, he is running. He really wants to meet me. But you see, since he is now a pedestrian, his clothing is not quite as bright or soft as it used to be, in fact, it looks quite… well… pedestrian, these days.

He relies on the generosity of others for housing and lodging when his ingenuity fails and he is not able to work in exchange for his basic needs. His thick black hair could use a good conditioning. His olive skin could use a good scrubbing. But he is walking, no running. He really wants to meet me.

I would go out to meet him half way but I am not sure what direction he is coming from and he doesn’t seem to have my cell phone number. Sometimes, I think I have found him and I invest my energy in the man who seems to fit his description but each time it turns out to be a case of mistaken identity.

While I wait, I grow older, more anxious and lonely. I want to be in my best shape when he arrives. I am trying to be someone that would impress him. Its exhausting and I could really use the support of a tall, dark, sexy, supportive, intelligent and charming Prince.

Anyways, I just wanted to ask you for a favor… if you see him on the road, could you give him a lift?

Mediocre

Selfish Lovers

There is this burning desire to be with someone. It is, that I feel so much more powerful, so much less vulnerable, when there is someone else to share the responsibility and the success. I am so much freer, when I know that my failures are yours, my successes are ours and I can take pride in you. I have so much more to show for my efforts, because yours are mine. I can hide my faults in your glory. I can feel beautiful in your gaze, wise in your thoughts, kind in your selflessness. And I am happy with many things about me but just think how much greater I could be if you were imprinted upon me, if I were multiplied by you. It is selfish to want to be loved, to want to be half of a whole. I hope you are selfish.

A Tribute To Anselm Kiefer

The first time I saw you,
I fell into your expanse,
my body weak,
I bent to my knees,
and literally sat on the floor,
wanting to soak in more,
of your genius.

Of course, I had heard of you before,
but slides cannot do you justice,
and the images on the screen resounded flat and monotone,
they had none of your fabulous texture.

I can’t be the first,
I am sure the guards at Moma have seen it before,
and then at the Tate,
you are all over the place.

Now finally,
a one man show,
me and you alone,
in the country I call home.

You speak to me like lovers do,
like teachers,
like children,
like survivors,
like victims,
and heros.

In the broken glass I saw my face,
as you reflected upon me.
In stiffened sillouettes you sculpt me.
In metal and oil,
in wire and emulsifiers,
in stems and leaves frozen under glass,
in the poetry of titles,
you have me.
In canvases fitted perfectly,
not a diptych, but a whole of two seperate parts,
I am an enraptured lover.
Any day of the week,
I would let you break my heart.

Taking Back Tel Aviv

He was young,
and beautiful.
His lips were soft,
and the risk was low,
he kissed me sweet and slow.
His last name? God knows.

Way past midnight,
the calendar turned,
as my world spun,
in a new revolution.
I took back Tel Aviv.

“Tonight, we are going to play have you met Ted.”
Thats what she said.
“Tonight you are going to see there are other men.”
She is the best wing woman,
whisking away his friend,
while he took a lemon,
from my lips,
sexy,
Brazilian,
British,
barely a man.
Quite alright that I will never see him again.

He danced me across the floor,
wanting so much more.
His youth close to me,
allowed me to breathe,
the air of sin city,
without choking on you.
The city changed to red from blue.

And in the morning,
when I heard the bikes sing,
“ling ling,”
I smiled real wide,
because last night,
I kissed a beautiful,
22 year old,
Brazilian British guy.

Way past midnight,
the calendar turned,
as my world spun,
in a new revolution.
I took back Tel Aviv.

Long After Dark

He puffed out his chest, stood up straight and said,
“I am a man.”
Which only had the effect,
of a boy in his father’s jacket.
A little wondrous boy,
resistant to affection,
because he thinks disaffecting makes him look more grown.
He quickly forgets that,
without Wendy,
he never would have had his precious shadow,
sewn,
back on.

When he gets bored,
he declares, “game over.”
And sends the other players home.

And although he has his shadow,
he still hasn’t found his heart,
so while the others sleep in loves embrace,
he is still out playing,
all alone,
long, long after dark.

Forget Me Not

A month ago,
I sat in a cold apartment,
with underwear on my head,
drinking vodka with her,
beautiful her,
trying to remember that other things are beautiful,
besides you.

I am not sure if you get over people,
or only to hope that you’ll eventually forget them.

Artist/Genius

They say real artists expose themselves,
in an effort to expose everyone else.
Always the tragic genius.

Embarrassingly,
sometimes, I let my mind,
still wander with my fingers intertwined,
in you.
I let my ears,
hear,
you knock.

Even though,
I know,
I know,
this not a box that should be opened,
this is not a place I should go.
It is just a byproduct that demands removal,
that I still crave your approval.
Your respect.
Your recognition.

I still want to spark your ignition.
To be seen,
as more than a simple attraction,
a temporary distraction.
I still wish,
I had one more chance to touch your lips.

Even though,
I don’t believe in sequels,
I still want genius you,
to view me,
as your equal.

Perfect

Beanstalk

I wish I,
could buy,
some seeds,
to cut through the,
silver clouds,
that hang over the,
young and the,
penniless.

There are silver clouds,
and they are ever threatening,
drowning or growth,
ever threatening,
drowning or growth.

I am slowly building a rickety ladder,
but I pray to,
wake to,
a short cut to,
the giant,
and a clever rouse to,
steal the,
golden egg laying hen.
Oh, how much nicer my life would be then.

Silver clouds line the sky,
oppressively, obsessively,
compelling absorption.
And I,
am tired of splinters and not much to show,
I am selling the cow,
so magic beans,
grow,
grow,
grow,
GROW!