Walk This Way

There is the future. There is other future when tramps ambling shuffle-footed across failed roads, across dust-pecked destinies, along citywalks imitating lizard-toed pigeons, tramps with newspaper hats and brown bag hearts billowing and contracting and reeking of long past lunchrooms, these tramps molded into aluminum foil busts and scrap heap sculptures, we don’t remember them, but there is this word—tramp—it was a word once upon a time, a designation, a class, a dead word with spited history and fleas, and  when I see myself projected into the boxcar, the cameras following me, I will look around and smell around and hear around, and the word tramp will be resurrected as living homage, and there will be one, a rare yet archetypal specimen, with a too tight calico vest corseting his girlish frame, a doll’s wiggly fish of a moustache, dark, hyphenated, and there will be torn baggy trousers, a dusty bowler, lopsided bowtie, and this tramp will expose me to famous golden silence, the ultimate celebrity of all silences, and the stalking camera will proceed to zoom in on the tramp’s ghost-born face to show long opaque eyelashes and impish glee making of his features a creased cakewalk, and in our communal boxcar he will penguin-waddle from one end of the car to the other, and again the same splay-footed strut repeated, tirelessly, he is saying without words, with his feet functioning as mode of speech—How you walk in the world is everything. And then as our train rumbles thunderstruck along the tracks, there will be time allotted for further tutelage, he the tramp will teach me how to fall, how to take falls, the fall is all, it is the be-all end-all, how to walk, how to fall, how to execute these things and conjure the spirit of your own indefatigable tramp in a world that once upon a time roasted tramps on spits, or spit on them directly, or simply erased tramp from the vocabulary of the every day. You, he will announce through his famous golden silence, you will learn how to walk in this world and fall in this world as this is all there ever was or ever will be.

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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