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Monthly Archives: November 2020
All That Jazz
“Now once more the belt is tight and we summon the proper expression of horror as we look back at our wasted youth. Sometimes, though, there is a ghostly rumble among the drums, an asthmatic whisper in the trombones that … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry
Tagged F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jazz Age, John Biscello, poem, roaring twenties, romanticisim, youth
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Reap
By the light of the autumn moon, she became, as always, a legend true to her own scythe and reaping.
Tale-Spin
There’s something funny, and a little lonely, about being the idiot protagonist in the tales you endlessly narrate to yourself, as if you were somehow plagiarizing the stars to round out your silence with immaterial gains amounting to destiny, if … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry
Tagged John Biscello, poem, Poetry, storytelling, tale told by an idiot
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This Side of Arson
It is an emptying-out, a daily maintenance of purge which, in its favored form, testifies to the lore of secrets held within revelations, or, delineates just cause for an arsonist’s burning.
Lovers
Between true lovers, a throbbing flight of totems, carved from moon and ash.
Crow Talk
I close my notebook, and everything that goes with it, and listen to the crow cawing outside my window. I get confused. Is he saying Winter is coming soon, or, It’s time to dream rightly, as I do, with zero … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry
Tagged crow, John Biscello, notebook, poem, the lore of crows, the writing life
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Swoon
In the small hours, and secret world, where nocturnal flowers call for tenderest glances and esteem, blooming occurs at the inevitable pace of dreams, and swooning resolve.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged bloom, John Biscello, night poem, nocturnal flowers, poem, small hours
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She Weeps
Victory is the epilogue to squabble. And its prelude too. That is, when your bayonet plunges into the ribcage or spleen of another version of you, the moon weeps slow silver rivers of tears, unconsoled by the glitteringly indifferent stars, … Continue reading
It’s A Moon Thing
Here, then, is the poet’s most holy and vocational duty– to clarify, beyond the rabble and ill communication, something flowingly equivalent to the reflection of the moon on dark rippling waters, sated, briefly, in savvy communion with what lies beneath.
John Biscello 