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.

Enigma

Rapt fascination– when the enigmatic meets the readily apparent in an effort to fashion and sustain identity from the lore of diminishing returns.   #2 in the Untitled Film Poems series Image by Cindy Sherman

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Legacy

After watching the bruised legacy of her childhood pass her by out of the corner of her eye, she had developed an astigmatism which, in effect, bred her glaring suspicion of distance, and violent need of its diffuse edges.   … Continue reading →

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The Writing Life

These are the tools of my trade. I have written in spiral-bound notebooks, college-ruled, for a long time. They are always of varying colors. Red, yellow, blue, purple, black. Never green. I write with a Zebra F-402 ballpoint pen, black … Continue reading →

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In Search of Lost Time

A meditation on memory, longing, storytelling and spiritual homesickness.

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Street Corner Lore

The red light green light of young love and longing in a world of urban lore. Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn.

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Kissing Anya

Young love, urban lore, coming of age, and the nature of forever. An excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn.

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Glow

Childhood and coke parties. Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn.

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Wendigo

Long-distance shot of a snowy landscape, a tundra. Completely silent. A MAN enters the frame, running. He is wearing a bulky white parka, its fur-lined hood pulled over his head, and flying a fire-orange kite. We continue to see the … Continue reading →

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Coils

To caper at the edge, where the seething lyric happens, poetry with slits and fast teeth, where the hours of phenomena are boiled and reduced to a single quivering instant, an umbilical knot of light upon tenderest scraps and coils.

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Ravels

At the wound’s core, dark luscious ravels of text, courting, inviolate measures, the fathomless brood of Beauty’s End.

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