Monthly Archives: December 2017

Godot Vs. God

Posted on December 15, 2017 by John Biscello

In Godot’s waiting room, Heaven-rent, the vacancy sign had been converted into a living epitaph for people choking on bated breath: Here tomorrow, gone today.

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Levitation

Posted on December 13, 2017 by John Biscello

Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn, novel-in-progress.    Anya and I were seated on the rubber mat in the front hallway.    We had been playing marbles. Or rather our own version of marbles, which we called Marble Mash. After having … Continue reading →

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Sober Judge

Posted on December 13, 2017 by John Biscello

Dylan Thomas falls from his barstool in Heaven— God, tending bar, picks him up, turns to Job—Who am I to judge?

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Missive

Posted on December 13, 2017 by John Biscello

Flown, without feathers, an unrelenting missive engaging remote hints and near heaven

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Arc

Posted on December 11, 2017 by John Biscello

It is the mouth birthing a blood-new kiss that begs gravity’s pardon and raises lips to an impossible arc.

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The Writing Life

Posted on December 10, 2017 by John Biscello

Pen, referencing a glossary of soul, scratches out excess to clarify Eternity, finger-holds, tenuous at best, dignify the mount of a marvelously impossible task.

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White Bird

Posted on December 9, 2017 by John Biscello

She, full of secret pines, shadow-limbed beneath a pale disc of winter sun, waltzing solo in snow-caked hills, blood-red quill tucked behind her left ear, just in case the urge to climb spires and trace spheres via a fierce run … Continue reading →

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Broken Land

Posted on December 9, 2017 by John Biscello

My first novel, Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, which was named Underground Book Reviews Book of the Year (2014), has officially been re-released. Available in paperback and digital editions. Click here to buy. ABOUT: A spectral, existential noir set against the aging … Continue reading →

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Winter Adagio

Posted on December 8, 2017 by John Biscello

Nightwalk in a small town. Moonbleached adobe set against the snowglobular shakedown of flakes, as if dandruff from the itchy shaved scalp of God was falling, a phosphate rhapsody. Along the road, mudskinned snowdrifts, like albino coal-miners, crouching, or dispossessed … Continue reading →

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First Love, Winter

Posted on December 7, 2017 by John Biscello

Boy and girl, sledding tongues, no words— Winter, gloves off.

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