Monthly Archives: June 2016

Elegy

Posted on June 20, 2016 by John Biscello

small hands folding paper cranes as grief rises

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Cafe

Posted on June 20, 2016 by John Biscello

At the small, time-worn cafe, the woman in the bell-shaped hat of crushed green velvet, palms warmed by the chipped enamel mug of dark coffee, this woman, setting adrift a gondola of words to cross the unsayable, reaching, with grave … Continue reading →

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Drift

Posted on June 19, 2016 by John Biscello

How to live patiently, in praise of mysterious drift, the questions burning dark in your heart, stolen keys fitted to foreign locks; you, spy and thief to your own drama, holding shadows to high standards, must abide with fierce intent, … Continue reading →

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Regarding Miss Stein

Posted on June 16, 2016 by John Biscello

How the petaled complexities of the infinite rose is a rose is a rose sires tender turns through mounting cursive.

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Finite Jest

Posted on June 15, 2016 by John Biscello

Picking God’s scabs with a savage hangnail— define satire.

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Witness

Posted on June 15, 2016 by John Biscello

Divine, immeasurable wedlock between infinitely charged particles; I, humbly engaged, to bear witness

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Julie

Posted on June 13, 2016 by John Biscello

I. Eyes. When I called them winterblue, you said, oh really, the O a fat bright balloon twisted into a curious animal. Really, I insisted, and explained how, when written, I’d compound winter and blue, words holding hands to get … Continue reading →

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Emily

Posted on June 12, 2016 by John Biscello

You say she knew not God because she scratched under a floorboard all winterlong, the marginal tracks of a starved mouse seeking a piece of brittle crust, maybe a crumb.

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The Flame and the Lotus

Posted on June 10, 2016 by John Biscello

(For Sylvia Plath, 1932-1963) I. sylvia in chains and drag: the green-eyed bee-witch, Ariella, poised on her remote blue star, chilled and unblinking succubus to the men she promises to swallow, whole, like air

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Tinder

Posted on June 9, 2016 by John Biscello

In this lighted instance, a storm-watch of gold bearing the heft of silence and time, slowed. Blue shoulders the collapse of heaven, it is the Atlas underlay, the muscle cloud formation. When the painter dies, this tindered vault will inherit … Continue reading →

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