Tall Black Armchair, or, Anais Nin Revisited

“The woman will sit eternally in the tall black armchair.  I will be the one woman you will never have … excessive living weighs down the imagination: we will not live, we will only write and talk to swell the sails.” – Anais Nin to Henry Miller

It was a gag,

or maybe not.

Maybe a seance of sorts,

a call to the past, or . . .

whatever it was, it demanded action.

I bought a tall black armchair

at a thrift store, one of its legs

slightly shorter than the rest,

which somehow felt right.

I placed the armchair in the attic

and draped a white sheet over it.

Drew big dark eyes on the sheet

in permanent marker,

and then a Rorschach blot of a mouth.

I laid a pair of my ex-girlfriend’s

black lace stockings on top

of the sheet, almost as an erotic offering

to flesh things out.

My ghost of Anais Nin

now needed sound

and so I

made a mixed tape of clips

of her voice

then placed a cassette player

with the tape inside

under the sheet

and turned out all the lights

in the attic

as I lit one thin long candle

which gave off a warm auerate glow

and then communed with the ghost of Anais Nin

for however long eternity lasts

in the world of one

who sails

according to Imagination’s standards


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 johnbiscello.blogspot.com. Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.
This entry was posted in Poetry, Prose and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s