The Way of the Fool

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.

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Film Treatment

Silence, within

a dark empty theater, starring

you on a blank screen.

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Beyond the slimmest margins,

a paling, a cooling,

where you can assume

the role of engaged witness

and translate intimacy

into a remembered calling, a friend

without want or ceiling.

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Birthing Pains

To see, everywhere,

brave little lights going up,

flares of hope and justice,

holding hands

to tip the scales

in a bond of solidarity,

a fire-chastened purge

and desire for change’s

holy golden grail,

the quest,

a blessed rhyme

and legacy,

with each and every

one of our hearts

breaking open

to scale the ribs of light

and become radical midwives

to a collective rebirth.

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At the Beckoning Edge


you’ve got to stand at the liminal edge,

equal parts trespass and yield,

your entire life a fragile ceremony

of plunge and arc,

respiring within spells of wonder.

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From Shards, a Cathedral

From the absolute hovel

of unlettered ruins,

a crabby shard,

reflecting a tasseled badge of moonlight—

this, the modest origins

to ceremony and marvel,

as she built an outlaw cathedral

of self,

in which she dwelled and worshipped,

vagrantly hospitable

to the glittering harem of angels

who, nightly,

swooped down

to carve sacral

texts of light

upon her rumored longing

to grow sheer,

and host holy fire.

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Comfort is a privilege,

yet kindness and dignity,

charity and compassion,

are spirit-given rights

and blessings,

the seeded marrow

and initiative

of our soul’s turnings

toward unequivocal light.

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Arson & Grace

Collection of plays forthcoming from CSF Publishing.

Arson & Grace

Think of this collection as a black-market passport to a realm of lucid dreams and savage jest. Or as the splintered signpost to a crossroads where pop culture, mythology and surrealism intersect. Spanning a thirteen-year-period (2003-2016), Arson & Grace comprises eight plays written by John Biscello. In a world, which is warped sibling to ours, and reflected back to us through funhouse mirrors, you will find love, death, madness and family dysfunction given fresh theatrical makeovers, while meeting a motley assortment of characters straddling the blurred lines between reality and illusion. From penile-enlarged patriarchy to airports where babies are confiscated to werewolves who don’t waltz, the spirit of commedia dell’arte and “zanni,” is alive and well in the Wonderland playscapes of Biscello. Abandon reason all ye who enter here—and trespass lightly.  

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Brave New World


are the keepers of the sacred fire,

the shapeshifters

and purveyors of starstuff undivided,


tending to flocks of light and clouds,

understand that, come rain or come shine,

the founting marvels

from God’s lips, and breadth,

are a flagless scape

containing a ringed inheritance of gospel and blues,

a testimony to grace,

with love our code

and the immutable core nugget

through which we face our shadow

while turned toward the sun,

stepping boldly and bravely

into the glaring unknown.

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Jean Rhys

You held the islands in your eyes,

where it rained

and rained and then the sun warmed wet to a wafting hiss.

This Jean, you, the feline slink,

filigreed shock, and sinewy comb

of whitelaced waves

ruffling upon

puttied blobs of shore.

Heartsore eyes,

you looked out

when no one was looking,

when the judges had lost sight of you,

and then, daring glee, you’d dive

into the smallest kingdom,

of mudpies and sandcastles,

seafizz kissing the wiggling halfmoons of fresh pink toes,

and you’d laugh and laugh, nymph of the sea,

begging its inheritance and claim

with the involuntary desperation of the meek.

Yet the islands, at the mercy of memory-tides,

flooded regularly, and you, rag doll corseted to a raft,

were carried back back back—

the shabby hotel rooms with vicious mirrors,

brightly lit cafes with trained voices

faring your terrors,

and your heart, o your poor heart,

a ruptured cadenza

consummating tender relations

with all the wrong men,

and out of its brokeneness

flowed the sap and resin

of nursery school blues—

I didn’t know

I didn’t know

I didn’t know.

There was the bottle,

gauzy fretted palls,

the milkfingering of wind.

There was also ribbed fringes of prose,

and that was where we found you,

alone, the barest treble,

shipwrecked on a distant island

that was mostly made of mist, and nostalgia, scabbed.

You held the islands in your eyes, Jean, where gashes

came to know the sea’s suture and rhyme, its flicking bluegreen tongues

as balm and frolic upon

the smallest kingdom


to grace.   

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