Visitation Rites

There is no separation,
she said. That is such an illusion,
the longest-running con-job
this side of the moon.
Do not believe
the shit that comes
out of the pipelines
of splintered masses.
(She knocked on my forehead
three times, wanting to get through).
Just because there are
walking talking ghosts
existing in a self-generated vaccuum
of separateness,
doesn’t mean you need to throw
a white sheet over your head
and make bad porn out of haunting.
You’ve got a heart, a fool’s plaything,
wonderstruck and lovesick, tune in
to the cave-depths of its wisdom and hunger,
not to vacancies filled by dead air,
or empty spaces rented by talking heads.
You wanna know what it’s all about?
(I nodded yes,
and she proceeded
to kiss me
full on the mouth.)
There, from my lips to yours,
the virtues of a most tender exorcism.
Feel better?
(I said I did,
and then watched as she faded,
leaving me to linger warmly
in her silence,
beyond ordinary claims,
and so very full
of life.)



About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, spoken word performer, and playwright, John Biscello now lives in Taos, New Mexico. He is the author of three novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, and Nocturne Variations, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag. His fiction and poetry has appeared in: Art Times, nthposition, The Wanderlust Review, Ophelia Street, Caper, Polyphony, Dilate, Militant Roger, Chokecherries, Farmhouse, BENT, The 555 Collective, Instigator, Brass Sopaipilla, The Iconoclast, Adobe Walls, Kansas City Voices, and the Tishman Review. His blog--Notes of an Urban Stray--can be read at Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.
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