Not in So Many Words

On a molecular level, we are fucked. Perpetually, repeatedly, renewably. Fucked. The world is an unceasing orgy. Everything touches everything, nonstop fondling and incestuous friction between particles, the pulsing frisson of meshes. We are nets that hold nothing and touch everything. Your very breath is a sailor and kissing cousin, a polygamist engaged in measureless trysts. Affairs to remember, affairs to forget—it doesn’t matter, it is. To think about it too long might make you feel sick or disgusted or consequentially wrong, so you isolate and declare yourself immune to whatever it is your cells are doing behind your back. You close the eyes behind your eyes, tell me no secrets I’ll tell you no lies, to imagine yourself vividly entwined to the everywhere everyall could bring on nausea of existential proportions. You want your mystery to remain shapeless, because, you reason, the shapelier the mystery the more dangerous it becomes, why run the risk of mysteries shaped like hourglasses or bulges or bugles or legs of lamb? You will maneuver as adroitly as you can to avoid conjugation with the lady breathing down your neck a hundred thousand miles away, or ignore the man falling asleep in a fetal position dreaming motherless dreams as he sucks his thumb in time to a melody forgotten upon waking weeping. This is the world. On molecular levels, we are bonded, we are fucked. It moves beyond human, beyond us. Stone, lizard, pollen, polyp, newt, cumulus, cauliflower, stardust. Everything touches everything. Graffiti on ice caps, my breath mirroring a mask for your breath to wear, the tears of stained children etching scarry stories into hearts … to remember … we etch in the air, our fingernails growing glassy vines of light. Eternity is no stopgap. Nor is it a noun or prefix or afterword. Eternity the borderless bed spread out to host the pulsing pines and needles of an everywhere everyall clusterfuck.  You are at the heart of an orgy, a seed pitched in the crotch of its panting nexus. Whether you like it or not. Deal.

About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, performer, and playwright, John Biscello, has lived in the high-desert grunge-wonderland of Taos, New Mexico since 2001. He is the author of four novels, Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, Nocturne Variations, and No Man’s Brooklyn; a collection of stories, Freeze Tag, two poetry collections, Arclight and Moonglow on Mercy Street; and a fable, The Jackdaw and the Doll, illustrated by Izumi Yokoyama. He also adapted classic fables, which were paired with the vintage illustrations of artist, Paul Bransom, for the collection: Once Upon a Time, Classic Fables Reimagined. His produced, full-length plays include: LOBSTERS ON ICE, ADAGIO FOR STRAYS, THE BEST MEDICINE, ZEITGEIST, U.S.A., and WEREWOLVES DON’T WALTZ.
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