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.

Confessions at the End of the Tunnel

   It was the very end of our relationship, when it was past the point of ever being good again.  We both knew it but neither one of us wanted to say it, because that would mean letting go and … Continue reading

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Babytalk

(Story from Freeze Tag.) I had been dating Jeannie for two years and had been living with her for the past six months.  We had a place on 31st Street between Madison & Park Avenues and we could afford it because, … Continue reading

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Fruit

(Story from Freeze Tag.)    L & S was a candy store and newsstand located on the corner of 60th St. and 18th Ave.  L & S, which stood for Louie & Son, was owned by Louie Varinella: a burly, slightly … Continue reading

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Gravity Girls

(Excerpt from Raking the Dust.) It was some time later, back at the drink rail, when I heard—Hey Spider-Man—and felt a hand press down on my shoulder. I turned around and there was Jose, his eyes a couple of pinkish slits … Continue reading

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Portense

By fever, and sappy resin, proof positive that bodies, in thorny solder, invent new ways for souls to portend and commit arson.    

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She

She, the wrinkled pool of lusty glaze and somatic charge, of aural bouquets teasing cherry-bled sound and fragrance from whetted lips, fasting to shape a comely beckon, moon-fed by dark.

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Reckon

You, true to your own scythe, perpetrate with fierce love, small necessary deaths, you, whispering sweet winged words of encouragement to your reaper, Hurry now, slowly, and bless my broken softly, bless every last ghost through the numinous host of … Continue reading

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Intent

Silence, the lighted bidding to know my own heart, to take a chance on every last fretted me I neglected to face, or boldly mention, to sow gaping closure with intent.  

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Outlet

Kiss my shame, she said, the moistened outlet to my sealed-in history, run your tongue, but gentle now, gentle, over my heart-shaped booboo, make it sing, as if the moon, a secret maestro, was drawing the most beautiful notes from … Continue reading

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Communion

She knows who she is, the one who placed a piece of the moon under my tongue when I wasn’t looking, now, when I speak of night, light follows, to gild my bated communion.

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