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.

Morning

Scars worn out to fade, old records played in small hours– Dreams chased by morning.

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Bath

Sun, drizzling pink onto the rim of the tub– Lady, soaked, warms up.

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Knead

From hips to belly, the distance between longing and bare knead, swelling.

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Prelude

Small, slow kiss, followed by lips mowing soft petals– How to eat a rose.

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Next

The lushest red rose, a fragile torch passed, to grace whatever comes next.

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Sacrament

The tenderest shoots, she offered as nuptials– Blood, green to the touch.    

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instagrammatika

it’s a new world a small world after all lowercase no-scroll instapoems & screenshot epistles taking you over the moon and on the road and back again in one fell lyrical swoop just in time for another poem about sublime … 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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Joan of Arc

Enlightened, perhaps. God-engorged hormones, maybe. Regardless of why, Joan, you were the rebel prototype long before James Dean zipped up a red jacket, or Marlon Brando mumbled and curled his upperlip into a totem, before Louise Brooks and Josephine Baker … Continue reading →

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