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.

Deluge

It is both pleasure, and an epitaph to pleasure, at the same time. When the phenomena occurs and the colors run and slash and slit down upon me in ravels of deluge. Spring-green, shell-pink, sky-blue, bled-red, egg-heaven, grief-yellow. I, a … Continue reading

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Pour

So much light poured in, so much passive worth.

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Draft

There are no mirrors here, yet everywhere I see myself, a bated draft of furls, each bearing the right to exist, and respire ably.

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Godot Vs. God

In Godot’s waiting room, Heaven-rent, the vacancy sign had been converted into a living epitaph for people choking on bated breath: Here tomorrow, gone today.

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Levitation

Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn, novel-in-progress.    Anya and I were seated on the rubber mat in the front hallway.    We had been playing marbles. Or rather our own version of marbles, which we called Marble Mash. After having … Continue reading

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Sober Judge

Dylan Thomas falls from his barstool in Heaven— God, tending bar, picks him up, turns to Job—Who am I to judge?

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Missive

Flown, without feathers, an unrelenting missive engaging remote hints and near heaven

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Arc

It is the mouth birthing a blood-new kiss that begs gravity’s pardon and raises lips to an impossible arc.

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The Writing Life

Pen, referencing a glossary of soul, scratches out excess to clarify Eternity, finger-holds, tenuous at best, dignify the mount of a marvelously impossible task.

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White Bird

She, full of secret pines, shadow-limbed beneath a pale disc of winter sun, waltzing solo in snow-caked hills, blood-red quill tucked behind her left ear, just in case the urge to climb spires and trace spheres via a fierce run … Continue reading

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