Author Archives: John Biscello

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About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, performer, and playwright, John Biscello, has lived in the high-desert grunge-wonderland of Taos, New Mexico since 2001. He is the author of four novels, Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, Nocturne Variations, and No Man’s Brooklyn; 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 produced, full-length plays include: LOBSTERS ON ICE, ADAGIO FOR STRAYS, THE BEST MEDICINE, ZEITGEIST, U.S.A., and WEREWOLVES DON’T WALTZ.

Cartography

Posted on September 9, 2026 by John Biscello

Memory as grayscale motive for cinematic dismemberment. Fractures and fragments insinuating a morphic whole, we puzzle together the anti-matter and immaterial aspects of our lives in secret rooms barred to the world at large. In these rooms, playing Frankenstein to … Continue reading →

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Garden

Posted on September 9, 2026 by John Biscello

Memory as night-flowers blooming jade and jasmine in fields of intuition. Old folks bend over backwards to become children again listening to the honeyed sepia fragrance wafting northward, restoring calm and grace, briefly, to lives tasted in half-tones and measureless … Continue reading →

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Room

Posted on September 9, 2026 by John Biscello

Memory as eulogies in reverse. You tell yourself a story, same as you tell yourself a memory– the supplest rites of cosplay and seance conducted, first person, in a room of one’s own naming.

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Moby

Posted on September 9, 2026 by John Biscello

Scraps, tatters, and the deluge of mindfill flickering, animating, and magnetically assembling your rumored origins into chamber cinema– you, and you alone watching the graffitied runes of a life, or many lives, curated, transcribed, and projected onto an empathic white … Continue reading →

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Cinema-Scope

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

Engraved in the shadows of cinema I found myself watching myself circled by ghosts whose bluest breath of want revived me in mercurial doses. I knew that if I kept watching I would go on. The question then became not … Continue reading →

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P.S.S.

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

Memories supply ghosts with their own ghosts haunting lives yet to come or recoccur in sundered part.

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Pool

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

My mother’s face. What about the rest of her? My mother carried within herself, like the gothic utburd, the dead child of motherless. Motherless lived inside my mother, beside her. In these motherless places dark things grew, which I would … Continue reading →

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Three to Five

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

I do not want to see the face of God, I want to see her mask, where and for whom it cracked. These lines hail from a poem, “Claim for the Meek,” written by Bernardo Antwerp. I am specifically thinking … Continue reading →

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Board Game

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

It is inescapable. This I know, and begrudgingly accept. Yet, do I begrudgingly accept it? Or do I just say that because what alternative do I have? I can kick and scream like a five-year-old in the paroxysms of a … Continue reading →

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Tuesday

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

You send yourself letters endlessly. They are postmarked from the future, some future date, some invented date, or the dates are all over the map—future and past switch places like Tuesday and Thursday, or Sunday and Monday. That is to … Continue reading →

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