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Fuck you! I didn’t do anything wrong. FUCK YOU!

 

I was fast asleep. Dreaming about details. You know? I wasn’t dreaming about Paris or the Amalfi Coast. No. I was dreaming about a list that I had to write: The shit details of my life…

 

I heard breathing. In the noisy sleep that I was experiencing I heard loud breathing. It was dreadfully close. Someone with his jaw dropped-open and head hung back. An exhausted pulling of air in and out in counts of threes, then a whistling through narrow airways until it gasped for more and saved itself from choking.

 

It was close I tell you. Caterpillars with their sixteen legs crawling upon my skin, I could feel a thick presence—A humid sweat caught by a chilled breeze.

 

As if we were on a train, or that he was at one point, alone. Traveling east through a foggy mountainside. The curves around stirring nausea in his gut from one shot too many of whisky. I could smell it, and sweat through a damp, dark trench coat. So slovenly, and my naval began to pull inward hoping to find the womb in which I could crawl back.

 

I was aware of my bed, the permanent hip-imprint, and unraveled sheets like unsettled sleep. I was aware of the stranger in my bed breathing down my neck, and I wondered why I had to be aware of his travels. I imagined papered-tulips on old plastered walls covering sounds, yet I could not stop the noise!

 

My entire body was begging for quiet rest. Only, good sleep comes when I need to focus. In the numb zone! One day, Alzheimer’s will come and take the focus like a bird to a land of thoughts, and I will be left a shell. Somewhere in my confusion, I know I’ll feel relief.

 

Yet, another detail to get done. I always cared about each one too until the broken pieces of the world around me built a cage, and I couldn’t pass beyond, or find myself. Ah, that fog and fucking breathing!

 

Eldin, was looking at pretty young girls with firms asses, middle-aged women with full-fallen tits, thin, full-figured, dikes, druggies, and dumb bitches. I wondered why each one, not fair or smart enough to shine my shoes, made me feel disfigured in my own skin? I hated them, and him for his weakness. His profoundly firm arrogance initiated a want for him—to ravage and engulf that persona until it became my power to crush him to death!

 

The rain began to splat down in sharp speeding darts. I could hear each one bouncing back upward off of the asphalt. I knew sleep would not come but at least solitude, a most valuable commodity helps assess the loneliness.

 

I’ve been thinking about breaking into pieces leftover ceramic tiles from a shelf in the garage, and painting them then puzzling a feminine sculpture—torn-apart and gathered back together with all of her scars. I’ll prop it against the happy green dining wall so that it stands-out and screams: I am here! I am here!

 

My skin begins to itch. Blotches between dry-aged lines connect thoughts to an overwhelmed brain, between two swollen red ears. Perhaps I listen too well—Things you do not know…

 

©2019 Maria DellaPorte – All Rights Reserved

(Me to my dear friend, Amanda – What do you think? It’s amazing! You are so talented. Thanks, but do I sound insane or scary? Not at all! I love it! I love to write, Amanda. Ideas come to me a lot in my sleep. Out of the blue it’s like someone is telling me a story. I then incorporate my own emotions, but I worry: What if people can’t tell fiction from reality? For instance, I’m done writing today and going to the gym, but someone may think that I’m Annie Wilkes. Who is Annie Wilkes? Yes, let’s go with that.) Have a nice day everyone! 🙂

 

 

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Good Morning. Have a seat.

 

Thank you. It’s nice to meet you.

 

Likewise. So, tell me, what brings you here?

 

Well, a lot… I mean, I’ve had a lot to process.

 

Yes…

 

I can get into all of it, and will, but right now, mostly, I’m tired.

Not tired. Depleted! You know, like I’m being pulled in ten different directions at once. Life is constantly asking: Give me, give me, give me… and I am challenged to sustain me in all of it. I am a people-pleaser; caretaker, feeling pressured to be perfect while simultaneously losing me.  My identity is wrapped-up in details. I want to break free. Be me-who I remember that I was. Well, kind of tell everyone in some subtle way to fuck-off!

 

Hmm… thoughtfully, she raises her thumb and index finger in a backward shaped L, and her palm up to chin to support her head:

 

So, what I’m getting is that you’re tired. Feeling depleted. As if you’re being pulled in ten different directions at once. Life is asking too much of you, give-me, give me, give me… and as a result you’re challenged to sustain yourself.  I get that you are a people-pleaser, caretaker, feeling pressured to be perfect while simultaneously losing yourself.  You must feel as if your identity is wrapped-up in details. I bet you’d like to break free from it all, you know? In some subtle way you’d like to tell everyone to fuck-off!

 

Oh, she’s good…

 

$120.00 – Shall we book your next session?

 

Sudden-subtle-understanding of one’s ability to reflect perfectly thy self

 

Seriously, fuck-off!

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

©2019 All Rights Reserved

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Silent Heart

Words are dead—

 

Trapped:

 

inside fat cells,

boarders,

armed-guards-surrounding.

 

Love’s silent war…

 

I will take her prisoner.

A sledgehammer to the heart!

 

Before.

 

A soul can see. Touch.

 

Her bare.

 

Tears.

 

Confiscate fuel from the remains…

 

a heart.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

©2019 All Rights Reserved

Gut Instinct

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Plain English –

In a place you don’t want to be,

and can’t escape from,

is not a poem to write,

but in this case true.

Orange-rage,

and wilting power, 🥀

fight,

in a locked-box about to explode!

Maria DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

(Short and sweet because, Baby, it’s cold outside and that’s what it’s all about.)

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Pink Flower

 

original

Actions speak louder than words, but oh… they are sweet.

I received them in my willing mouth—victim to their honey.

Aspiring…

 

Build a foundation, the nuts and bolts.

A sturdy-soldier for the battle of perfect humdrum—

 

Call me a pink flower!

 

Apples in a wire basket by the window,

Mother’s blue plates – memories of Easter’s birth on their rims,

Fresh bread rising in the oven,

Your heart’s beat, like a goat, resolute.

 

Seed planted in the heart – Oh Father!

 

Despite it all, and a dream, a house of cards.

 

Smoke blowing from its chimney a chicory wind.

 

See the Queen of Hearts, crying, at the window

…that wants to be.

 

-Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserve

 

images

 

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Fractions and picket fences.

A quarter of the time—whole life.

 

Surrounding what it encompasses…

Compartments. Safe.

Not my pieces

 

Trying to attain the sum of something.

 

Paint the days, white-Lilly, strokes-imperfect,

but they’ll do.

 

Those not brave enough!

 

Keep the gate closed.

I tell myself running-up hills.

 

On the outside of comfort, weary.

 

Why?

You ask as if I know—

 

I’d rather feel soil escaping through my fingers,

as I steal flowers from the earth.

 

My mother, in her needlepoint apron,

was a promise to keep!

 

What I became only to let go…

Wounded soldier. A kaleidoscope.

 

I’ve always wanted to live there—

 

Sturdy staircase. White stove.

Windows that turn falling rain into musical notes.

If footsteps could carry us backwards…

 

We could recreate the world, solid-men,

marching-bands in the fields,

 

swing-free, birds, on a tire-empire,

tug-rope secure over a grandfather-branch.

 

Put on the coffee!

Hush your nonsense…

 

I will build blue-steel ceilings,

 no dream can escape

without a price.

 

Count to ten and breathe.

Listen for a thing called love,

another time—

 

I am here! Here!

 

The temperature is changing.

Bring in the wood for the fire.

 

Exterior chipping,

to the ground falls with leaves blowing east.

 

A message in the night:

hang the yellow dress—hope

on a back hanger.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018

Illusory Silver Lining

Conceptual Art Credit Claudia Perna

tenor

Silver lining—

I am trying,

in love and despair,

to find you.

 

Reds, blues, heavy-anchors,

every which way…

 

I look, see a resemblance,

a flicker-beautiful, eyes, calling to –

yesterday’s:

confidence in motivation.

trust in a means to an end.

 

The universe, time,

tick-tock… mocking!

 

Climbing.

Fighting.

 

Lies.

Exhaustion.

 

The day comes with its bread and water,

its sun, molding vertical lines,

invisible, free-air, mind trapped inside.

 

Dare not speak the truth…

that it might find me,

once willing—unprepared.

 

In the pain I am with you,

razor-sharp reality,

 

creating colors that do not fade

impervious mysteries,

 

but that hold onto a heart.

 

There… its fragility,

saves the God inside us.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

 

Understanding Daisies

On a Thursday morning, like any other, they realized she was no longer breathing.

 

When she woke-up dead they poked and prodded.  Aloud, they fretted—insisting she had no more dreams. Time would gather-up everything that could have been.

 

They attempted to delve into her psyche, made accusations – each wrong, and from her tried to steal all secrets.  Three remained anonymous in the room—one screaming for answers!

 

Those least close to her insisted they understood most.  I remember when we…  And she… Oh, pity!

 

A man in the corner of the room faced the wall like a prison, free of restraint.  He gulped on his tears, and the acid coming-up pungently from his stomach.  Her shadow draped-over him warm like blood and tangy like guilt.

 

Separately, a thorn forever in her side wickedly counted cash in his head, already pawned personal items thriving on the attention he’d receive for his loss.  Poor Sir with his stocks and bonds.

 

Don’t touch my photographs!  My words… my words… What you don’t know is a lot!  In my Will I bequest…  There is only one.  Shut-up, goddamn it, with this stupidity!

 

The picture of God on the wall shook his head, “Not yet, my dear.”  But you’ve become like a brother?  God kissed her right ear with a whisper—you know, goodbye.

 

Her heart merely broken, momentarily-reflecting in the space between, not stopped like a nail at the end of a wood-plank.  It was a willing dream no cardiac arrest.  A sad cry from it all couldn’t escape if it tried.

 

A gaping breath filled the room!  The yellow paint on the wall came alive like the mid-morning sun.  All the dreariness like politics was a lie.

 

Percolated-coffee and old-fashioned oats scented the air with business as usual.

 

The one closest held her warm white-flesh, tingling alive like orgasm, and cried: “I’ll lay-out your clothes,” pink spring!  We can be happy again.

 

With no voice to be understood, she secretly wished to be free from it all, like the end-of-season’s daisies, holding-on for dear life to their pretty once-blooming smiles.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

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Ten Years One Eternity

Camouflaged

Ten years.

Ten eggs.

Ten Wednesdays.

Ten times forgiven.

Ten suns.

Ten chicks.

Ten heartbreaks.

fragile

Ten turns nowhere.

Ten pleads.

Ten entries.

Ten cherished.

Ten wounded-soldiers.

Ten dice.

Ten deaths.

Ten menstruations.

Ten witnessed betrayals.

Ten skies.

Ten tombs.

Ten mockingbirds.

Ten calls to patience.

Ten sins.

Ten temples.

Ten acquiesces.

brides

Ten motherhoods lost.

Ten battles.

Ten infants.

Ten prisoners.

Ten ways believed…

—One eternity.

One man.

One pulse.

One God.

—I am without you!

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved

The Stairs of Imprisoned Bones

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I am the stairs.

Up, down, —years.

 

Along the banister-prison –

creaking-floorboards, bones.

 

Bury them in the silence they deserve.

 

An empty-window-world above, forever,

taunting a way out!

 

Recollects we were alive:

Struggling momentous-steps

…..to nowhere.

 

An arbitrary shadow

against impenetrable wall

serves our memory.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved