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 three novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, and Nocturne Variations, 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.

Census

Your soul’s country is much bigger than you think. Find every last you there.

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Pathfinder

Traveling mapless backroads, I found heaven looking for me.

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Lovesong for Self

  It became a goal, soul-mate to my own damned self— Nerves on the first date.

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Coil

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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After Party

She, Lazarus, back from the dead, with a musical vengeance— A beat, Christ, please, she asks of her martyred D.J., half-light, half-man, and out climbs her voice, grinding through rubble, a dark velvet toy wound up for centuries, released, on … Continue reading

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Immigration Laws

We are immigrants in our own skin, flash-fire refugees who get by with falsified papers, fake IDs, and forged signatures. If caught and found guilty of a trespass or transgression, we pardon ourselves in our native tongues, language a placeholder … Continue reading

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Claim for the Meek

I do not want to see the face of God. I want to see her mask, where and for whom it cracked, the causal history of lines and fissures; want to trace, with blind mute innocence, the light quartered and … Continue reading

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Sylvia Plath

To be a mother, and to double as a dark sorceress, a cleaver of dried bones, could not have been easy. Especially in the 1950s. They burned witches then, as well as reds and blacks and faggots, and other things … Continue reading

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Anne Sexton

It begins with a stopwatch, and a glass of water. The stopwatch belonged to her father, or to her father’s father. The glass of water is a joke. Imagine trying to remedy all that desert within, all that scabbing red … Continue reading

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John Fante

Inferiority might have been your first memory. Though you were born on American soil, Denver, CO, April 8th, 1909, the chinked chains of immigration had you by the throat and bowels, pinched your nerves as you butted your head against … Continue reading

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