At day’s end,
the bough breaks,
the cradle falls,
the songbird returns,
and the dreamer watches it all
spiring in neutral.
At day’s end,
the bough breaks,
the cradle falls,
the songbird returns,
and the dreamer watches it all
spiring in neutral.
Body be thy name as prayer made flesh. As prayer marry flesh. Flesh-prayer reaped in daily chronicles of sunlight, flesh exhales us into hospitable swaths and regions of dark, flesh as the ultimate wheelbarrow, sturdy and stable. Until it is not. Tissue withers and disintegrates. Organs go to pot. Flesh becomes homemade religion in ruins, yet remaining sacred in its dismissal and erosion. Process is change. Is the set of keys you are always being given whether you take them or not. Once accepted, these become the keys to the kingdom. Flesh cries out in wolfish hunger for other flesh, for additional flesh in which to bury, mantle, and merge. Flesh cries out like a newborn with high noon sun peppering its skin, as it toddles dumbly through the world with placeless wonder at its core. Flesh and body be thy conjoined name and signature, a prayer made animate for a limited breadth of time.
Abstraction is essential. It is a key tenet and cog in mapless wayfaring. The compass by which we’ve calculated starstuff as sacral molten matter in our dream-stream and slow burn. It is Romanticism caped under a lemon parasol with Impressionism stealing fugitive kisses which stimulate rosy blushes amidst the ceremony of grass. Abstraction is the ceremony of grass collecting quicksilver dewdrops and sending them back to the clouds like confetti manna in lusty reverse. Abstraction taps you on the shoulder when you least expect it. Or tips you off to a movement in time yet to arrive. Abstraction is essential in its functions as adhesive, ponderance, gloss, sailor, pantomime, and softly singing pollen. It comes in many forms though its base existence is ghost-feed and formless. You will never find abstraction in the dictionary. Only feeble and impoverished definitions, none accurately classing or having anything to do with abstraction as commonest gospel to liminal groove.
A flight of stairs, a flight of birds, a flight of fancy … fly into a bar and the barkeep asks—Which one of you is the fastest? No one answered. They were, in essence, conceptual. Conceptual kin. Three different ways of flying. Do the stairs and birds and fancy see themselves as kindred spirits, as relations, due to their shared “flights?” Upon scrutiny and philosophical consideration, you could say the birds are the realest of the three. The birds with their tiny beating hearts and feathery warmth and offspring. The stairs would be second in that they are solid, dependable, tangible. Fancy is an etheric and abstract term, a sliver of the immaterial, and so that would qualify as the least realistic of the three, yet … does not a flight of fancy promote winged and stair-like excursions to things and places that very muchunder the legislative purview: real. Are ideas real? A different kind of real, a dreaming-real, do ideas possess their own dream-life, carry implicitly within them hopes and aspirations to grow and materialize into something, the journey from placeless place to location, form and zone, ideas requiring attentive and engaged nurturance and caretaking? A flight of stairs, a flight of birds, and a flight of fancy are, in essence, the conceptual progeny of a mother-noun: flight. If called flighty stairs, flighty birds, flighty fancy, they would be adjectival kin. If classed flying stairs, flying birds, flying fancy, they would be verb cousins. Language is bond and adhesive. It is also qualifier, co-conspirator, and progenitor when it comes to raising and defining reality.
A flight of stairs, a flight of birds, and a flight of fancy fly into a bar and the bartender asks—Would you like a round of drinks, a round ball, or a round of golf?
Out of the deeply forested genus and enclosure,
scotophobic—fear of the dark—
emerges the rawest most primal material
from which stories are called and founded,
blackly lacquered honey
staccato in its slow-drip molasses and narcotic salve,
keeping us calm archival company
through distress-signals
flooded and fired within.
In the latent
vernacular of gist—
mind breaths in space time
crystallized as rapt intimacies
give the dreaming voice
its human due
and proof of residence—
Fading tracks the ghostly course
of diminishing returns
within a poem’s lasting domain
and strident measure.

Now available to buy through Unsolicited Press, Barnes & Noble, Asterisim, Booktopia, ThriftBooks, Book Delico, and wherever book are sold.

Print edition available through Lost Telegram Press.
Audio-book edition (narrated by the author, with a preface by the publisher) available through Google Books, Booktopia, Audiobooks Now, Bookmate, Downpour, Libro F.M., Audiobooks.com, and many other outlets, including Lost Telegram Press.
“So many novels are built around control. Even when they deal with rupture, they shape it into something we can grapple with. Events lead somewhere. Meaning accumulates in a way that can be tracked. By the end, the reader understands not only what happened, but how to leave the book. No One Dreams in Color ignores that contract.
It begins with a disappearance, suggesting a trajectory. A missing filmmaker, a writer compelled to follow the trail, a remote town waiting to be entered and interpreted. The structure is familiar enough that you can feel yourself settling into it, preparing for the usual exchange: attention in return for clarity. That exchange never arrives, and that is what makes No One Dreams in Color so fascinating. Biscello does not give you what you expect from a novel.”– U.P.
Read the full review here:
https://www.unsolicitedpress.com/news/this-book-doesnt-resolve-thats-not-a-flaw
