On Psychotherapy

It's kind of like sex.

You want to be explored to the core, and you are scared.

You keep asking yourself: can I really trust this person? What will happen when I completely surrender myself to him?

Will I finally realize that I am not just a lonely wanderer on this planet, that I am capable of joining someone , joining the human community?

and....

Bad therapy is just like bad sex.

You are touched here and there, but never to the right point.

You tried sooooo very hard to open up yourself.

And you feel sorry for that unlucky guy because he seems to be trying very hard, too.

Sometimes you feel something.....just a little bit.....it's very suspicious.

And you tell yourself :" Be patient, have faith.
Maybe things will be different next time. Something magical will happen."

And that life-changing next time never really came.

The Smell of Love

The wonderful night has come to an end. In the chilly morninig I wake up and realize that my bedroom is empty once again.

While brushing my teeth mechanilcally in front of the mirror, my nose suddenly detects something that's very, very sweet.

That's the smell of her hair that still clings to my hand.

Desperately, I try to lock in that smell, to not let it go.

But how could that be possible? Could I stop breathing?

Breathe out one more time, and the smell will be gone.....
And then you breathe in, and behold ! the whole intrusive world is coming:

the smell of soap and dirty laundry, of morning newspaper that dutifully informs
you about every boming on Gaza strip, of a cup of coffee that maybe tasteful or tasteless, of subway train (and of course all sorts of deodorants)........

The smell of the powerful, gigantic, mundane world........

The Horror Box

My love
is like a horror box that has been locked
in 37 different ways.

Discarded on the street corner,

It contains:

A mask that has poison applied all over,
A pair of tender-looking handcuffs,
Blood-stained sexy lingerie,
A calendar where the year never ends,
Some dark poems written in reverse,
A rotten and atrophic heart,
and
Lots of mud that used to be a pink rose bouquet--so badly trampled.

The city cop said:
"After a security check, this box has been proved
to have nothing to do with terrorism.
Just go ahead and destroy it. "

In the waste-burning furnace,
Everything was turned into a pile of ashes.
But even in the 995 degree Fahrenheit heat.
A sigh lingers.

I Choose to Stay in My Garden

I choose to stay
When all the roses have withered away;

I choose to stay
Whereas in this garden winter never ends.

My garden, ah--
How beautiful I thought it would be,
When I first planted those flower seeds.

Now, it's a wasteland.
The only living creature here is a robin chick
That sings for me every morning on my windowsill.

"My wings are not fledged yet,
And I could not fly on my own,
But they say in that far-off place,
Things are different---
So why don't you go?" questions the little bird.

"You've brought me so much joy of life," I reply softly.
"Therefore I choose to stay,
To be with you, my dear birdie,
Though the air supply is getting scarce here,
And death only steps away."