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.

Ritual de lo Habitual

Posted on September 17, 2026 by John Biscello

I had a decision to make. The world was ending, again. It had ended several times before. To be more accurate: many worlds had ended many times. Anyway, on one hand, there was the imminent end of the world, a … Continue reading →

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Bop

Posted on September 17, 2026 by John Biscello
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9/17/26

Posted on September 17, 2026 by John Biscello

As I sit here at my desk waiting for the world to end (again)—the collective hunch and shrug of mass many keeping future tense at peak volume—I think I will write. That seems as good and fine of a thing … Continue reading →

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Reap

Posted on September 16, 2026 by John Biscello

In the shadows of words, fulfilling the scythe and progeny of endearment, voices stalk air in hot sincere pursuit of grace’s voluminous unsayable.

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Saudade

Posted on September 16, 2026 by John Biscello

Solitude waxing blankly the sepia ebb of lost hours– Autumn recalls the moon in perigee and scandal, a ballad stripped bare to elegy’s standards.

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Leave-Taking

Posted on September 16, 2026 by John Biscello

Autumn, the lisping outlet and merciful turn toward the company of words– Mass in the lightness of hours.

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V

Posted on September 15, 2026 by John Biscello

Wordless, stripped bare, trembling is enough to ask.

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Pines

Posted on September 15, 2026 by John Biscello

In the beginning was the Word. And the Word grinned like a lascivious jackal, like a cruel scythe, and we were seduced. A votive placed in our niche spreading small light as Word-symbol flashed before our illuminated eyes: the darkened … Continue reading →

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Wordplay

Posted on September 14, 2026 by John Biscello

Here, virtually placeless, where little dreams are the broken edges of spidery raindrops engraving a highway windshield, I slide away from world, an escapee, a word waiting to happen under the tongue of someone else’s solvent pardon.

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Shackles

Posted on September 13, 2026 by John Biscello

In the waxing syntax of throb, pooling to unseemly levels, making beggars of desire’s taste for excess, we run on and on, sentenced to the gravity of a moon going down in honeyed rivet on a sea’s lush and glistening … Continue reading →

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