When I was a young man, a budding scribe eager to blossom white fire, and scabbed lotuses, you meant the world to me. You exposed me to velocity bop and piggyback rhythms, to applepie windowsill jazz and summerlight porchswings, to … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged beat, beat generation, boyhood, heroes, inspiration, jack kerouac, John Biscello, poem, soulspeak, tribute, writer's life
Is there anything greater than the beautiful nothing that gets done with gingered languour that full-of-sweet nothing when you are lying in bed next to someone you love and after having participated in each other’s mysteries with a relish near … Continue reading
She wanted to celebrate the Fourth. She put on her Stars and Stripes panties. Packed her toy gun, the one with the BANG flag that unfurled, into her babyblue purse with silver sequins. After waggling her hips to emphasize the … Continue reading
Will I run out of words before her mouth reaches mine and exhumes my distance? Tongues are such funny bridges.
At heart, in this commonest prolonged seance, ceremony to praise the ghostlight of our given stars, to raise the living and dead, beloved, such sweet mortal perish, this side of paradise, wisping away.
I have imagined her from every possible angle have painted skies with her needlepoint rain and am now defying gravity and leaving behind my body derelict and wasted on the sublime felonies of sunkissed air and singed feathers.
She was a liberal, except when she went down on me, or I on her, and everything was politics-free and equal between united fronts and sexes.
My desire to feel God is the same as the child’s dreamlipped desire to kiss the red kite bobbing and arcing far and away tethered to his wrist a wordless prayer given over to wind and sky.
There was pillowtalk in her eyes, underscored by her mouth’s bated languour; Sundays curled in her lap with feline ease, slow jazz dreams on holiday, whiskered softly between her thighs and pinkest belly; she wanted nothing to do with volume … Continue reading
She cried, guttural, the slit in her pillowcase harboring years of unheld yesses and scented missives; find me here, destitute, sunproofed, the girl of bare knees and forgotten dreams.