Author Archives: John Biscello

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 two novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale and Raking the Dust, 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.

Hands

This is the text which inspired the story I performed in a Story Slam a couple of years back. The theme was “Risk.” Here’s a video clip of the presentation (sorry, it’s sideways, but then again, so am I). One … Continue reading

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The Monk That Got Down

Today was strange. The sweet, quiet, solemn, solitary monk who lives in the cork-lined antechamber inside me was dancing. This is not something I have ever seen him do. I went to visit him, expecting the usual: him hunched over … Continue reading

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Opiate

To touch loneliness, unabated, the barest cherish, play of smile running softly on meant fingers, to keep yourself company, all that lovely sweet nothingness, gauged in lofty opiate whispers, trailing, then silence.

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Honeycomb

The deep bass drum of laughter, a resounding prayer, no more forgetting who I am, the well of memory has been stirred, and my bones, in turn, have been dared to splinter, the cracks between worlds, widening, inviting me to … Continue reading

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Prayer

Thank you, is the simplest and most profound prayer I know, borne along on a sea of breath, it returns to itself, the divinest echo from God’s muse to my lips.

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Lovesworn

If I could grow my arms the length of God I’d hug the entire world until a cosmic vessel went bust and bled light to no end.

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Wax

Her lips, in kissing, raspberry wax sealing notes, for heart’s safekeeping.

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Visitation, 7/12/18

Crawling on my wall, seven-legged white spider– your presence is gold.

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Level

Girl, I will write you for a long, seething bask, Light seeks its own level.

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Foam

Collect her broken bones, her sea-washed cortege, and sentences of charged glimmer, and pay close reverence to where the slow, reedy breath of the pearl steams the shell of its host, and when the time is right, just right, kiss … Continue reading

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