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.

Something Twisted This Way Comes

I was asked to create a customized review list for Shepherd.com, whose goal is to “create an experience like wandering around your favorite bookstore but reimagined fot the online world.” The following is my list: The best books in which mystery … Continue reading

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Monkeys and Barrels

None of it was going anywhere. It had been a while. Both things were true. Both could be beginnings. So let’s go with both: None of it was going anywhere. It had been a while. I felt like a dehydrated … Continue reading

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Rainy Day Woman

When Lucy left the café, I saw her open her umbrella before stepping out into the rain. Her umbrella was red. Her long wool coat was black. These colors, as harmony, stitched together by the rain, echoed within me for … Continue reading

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Come Wander With Me

Through grotesquely chapped lips, Bert whistled a bright tune, and managed to keep whistling with melodious tenacity as he and George walked.What’s that tune?I don’t know. Something I heard a long time ago.It’s nice Bert real nice. And the fact … Continue reading

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This is No Ism of Any Kind

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Giantess

Between bewildered, and the wildest seasons of time and longing, she derived dreamily the spatial pulse of God’s somnolent core.

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Stars

To glean, unerringly,the ripe maternal geniusof soil,she took lucid stockof her originsas a glamorous peasantfrom the cursive fiestaof stars–Words, as sacrosanct bond,became her,if only to negligeethe remote and hidden contoursof her fable unending.

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Fleur de Lis

This world,beyond this world,splitting into festive atoms,called upon this woman,beyond this woman,to air with no discretionthe favored breathof blue rosesfalling.

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On the Nature of Writing

Begin at the beginning. Who am I? Who is the voice asking who am I? Who is the who observing the voice asking who am I? Who is the who eternally taking notes on the who observing the voice who … Continue reading

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High Priestess

In the lost country of typewriters,and heresies of ink,lived a writer named Clarise,who, longing to syncthe pulse of Godwith sentient spates of text,broke offand plunged soulfirst into a wonderlandof intimately recursive lengths.

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