Author Archives: John Biscello

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About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, novelist, poet, performer, playwright and filmmaker, John Biscello, has lived in the high-desert grunge-wonderland of Taos, New Mexico since 2001. He is the author of six novels, Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, Nocturne Variations, No Man’s Brooklyn, The Last Furies, and No One Dreams in Color; 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 plays have been staged and performed both nationally and internationally.

In Search of Lost Time

One thing we cannot recover is time. Perhaps that’s what I have been trying to do.    Perhaps that’s what every writer, as a fugitive stalker, as a heartsick orphan, as the fool-hero in their own movie is trying to … Continue reading →

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For the Love of Craft

Inside the Writer’s Studio, or, What Lives in the Drawer.

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No One Dreams In Color

Completed draft of my sixth novel: No One Dreams in Color.

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Brooklyn State of Mind

For anyone interested in tuning into my 11/12 reading of No Man’s Brooklyn for the SOMOS Literary Salon, below is the link to a recorded version of the event. No Man’s Brooklyn NO MAN’S BROOKLYN: From the valentine boneyards of … Continue reading →

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Live Reading: No Man’s Brooklyn

In conjunction with National Prose Month (November), and as part of the SOMOS Reading Series, I will be reading from my novel, No Man’s Brooklyn, via Zoom. Q & A to follow the reading. Friday, November 12th @ 5:30pm (MT). … Continue reading →

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Solitude

Sometimes there is no sound more lonely and beautiful than that of a pen scratching upon a page with a world of silence as your neutral accomplice.

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Waves

At the faltering edge, where possibility meets a stolen glance, and guilt whispers discreetly to us the manner in which we must transgress, we traded breath for flame, and burned through every last vestige of decency, beneath our bodies shameless … Continue reading →

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Fly by Night

Longing does not require a precedent, or even a known catalyst. It is, in its purest form, the solvent call of homesickness, which is why our hearts, in their cause and breaking, claim the smallest birds as stars, and the … Continue reading →

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There Was a Time

Coiled within the echo and ceremony of longing, I tremble between memory’s flitting tease of my belly and hers, how they almost touched, erring a slow burn course by which the word made flesh could stalk itself, from a favored … Continue reading →

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Directions Home

Excerpt from No One Dreams in Color, a novel-in-progress. Bob Dylan, Carl Jung and Leonard Cohen walk into a bar in heaven… Dylan was dressed like a tramp clown, wearing a battered calico vest, baggy trousers, and a dusty bowler. … Continue reading →

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