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.

Lash

The scarring gleam, to produce penitent beads of sorrow, through a lashed eye, darkly.   (Photo by Man Ray)  

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Closer

You said you knew me, but really, what did you know? Closer, I dare you.   (Photo by Man Ray)    

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Pulpit

At the true pulpit, Silence reigns, speaking volumes– To praise, we listen.

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Lodge

Hell, according to Sartre, is other people. When I arrived, god knows where, silence, dust, clouds, a time-scarred sign and not a soul anywhere to be found, I began, in earnest, and jest, to wonder if Sartre was right, heaven, … Continue reading →

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Beach

Life, give us a break, Love, the loafer’s paradise, childlike in its reign.   (Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson)

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Footsteps

Every last kiss, a rupture in her psyche– Unsteady walk home.   (Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson)    

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Noveltease

Tuesday afternoon, blowing off work to find his lover, in bed, fondling Madame Bovary’s text under the covers, literary flint and tease sparking his novel request–May I read between your legs?   (Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson)

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Whirl

Whirling, to net wind, Nature, ordained to coerce, gives breath to poems.   (Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson)

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Wither

From morning to noon, the roses gathered to grieve the loss of their bloom.   (Photo by David John Lotto)

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Kind of Blue, Too

Spiders to Mozart, what luminous webs and notes we weave, snot-strands from God’s blown brass, tapestries of the eternal boombox, breakbeats to spacefolk to bebop within a deep forest kind of blue, the music, recorded or un, plays on and … Continue reading →

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