Welcome to the Dollhouse

Ballad of the Cuckoos is offering an intimate sneak-peek into “the room” in which our protagonists find themselves trapped. This small-scale model of the “Cuckoos Nest,” was created by my daughter, Sierra-Lindsey Biscello, who has been buiding custom-made dollhouses from recycled materials for the past several years. We hired her to build a miniature facsimile of our room/set, in which she meticulously crafted its assorted contents and structure. “The Cuckoos Nest” is featured in a moody cinematic short, filmed by Troy Paff, and set to the music of Anthony Distefano. Take a tender and cryptic trip into the haunted dollhouse, with your tour guide and architect, Sierra.


To find out more about the dollhouse (which we plan to offer as a one-of-a-kind perk), about Sierra’s dollhouses, and about our film, and how you can support us, go to: igg.me/at/cuckoocinema.
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Fool’s Play

To marvel dumbly,
and trespass,
with a sense of the infinite
backlighting a wink–
this, the way of the Fool,
or sacred is as sacred does,
when trusting the air
in its holy relationship to plunge.

fool (1)

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The Earthling Chronicles

The Martians,
in their conscious longevity,
stamped our passports
and immigration documents
long before our legacy of amnesia
and we came to realize
that everything, including our sense of planetary privilege,
has been a sham, a lost man’s desperate invention,
and while some wept and wondered, and wandered with nowhere to go,
others kept right on,
working their jaws religiously,
in chewing stick after stick of savior chewing gum,
which apparently becomes the stickiest stuff on earth
when engaging contact with foreign matters,
and other things true
to the calling of home.
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The crow,
weighing on the snow-skinned branch,
caws with dark religious insistence,
like a sailor homesick for love,
or its remaindered sibling.
There is an unremitting hoarseness
to Eternity
that disguises its calling
in still feathers
and winter’s light.
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Inspiration’s Track

is not a matter of chance,
or waiting, or a magic spell
that demands bated breath and fretted suspension—
it is the fact that you pick up a pen,
your fingers growing warm and intimate with its weight and feel,
the slow almost dumb beautiful realization that you,
or someone like you is holding a pen, an instrument aloft
and hovering above a blank page, and some kind of strange ceremony,
half-marriage, half-divorce, is about to take place,
in which you, or someone like you, as a form of expression,
is both the effect and the cause.
The pen, through good times and hard, accounts for dreaming,
and inspiration runs through your fingers like an unschooled course on being.
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You Are Here

To venerate,
the privilege of air
inside the ceremony of lungs
and chance, where you,
as an honored guest,
get to ripen and breathe
the adventure of your name
into a free-range universe.
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Did I look down,
or peer within
when I saw the golden grass
waving like liquid tendrils of light?
At the soft, rounded edge of dream,
a beckoning to fall, to endear charm
to the fool’s play calling your truest name
without pause.
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It is the caste
of throb
in which words,
line up
to serve a poem’s
desirous need
to know your longing
as an open source.
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How lovely
the metaphors
that drop from your lips
like feted pellets of rain,
and yet lovelier still,
the way their shadows
leave warm wet stains
wherever my skin
opens to catch you.
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Firsting Impression

It happens fast,
this life—
the first trembling chapter
of an impending sneeze,
the half-slitted stutter
of a lid’s ambition to wink–
We are, timewise,
less than these things
in the gaugeless cosmic scheme.
And yet beyond these words,
and the person who wrote them
(already he is dead
and gone)
there is love, as a force
and not a shove,
always love
which is not bound to a clock
or the stiff cult of metaphor,
and in the blink of a sneeze,
in the bated stutter of a nostril,
you are there,
breath knowing pure longing
as itself, in a marveled continuum
for migrant souls.
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