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.

Anya at Night

   Late summer.    Anya and I are on a walking tour of the park at night. The 40oz. bottles of Olde-E we are carrying are concealed inside brown bags. We detour at the playground, where Anya plants herself on … Continue reading →

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Valentine

Excerpt from Nocturne Variations:    From that point forward Piers and Teresa hung out nearly every night, getting drunk and stoned and completing each other in various ways.    An adverbially inflamed Teresa fell hard for Piers and loved her … Continue reading →

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Palmistry

Eternity, misconceived as a noun, and now? My palms stay open all night.

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Unsolicited 2018

I am excited to announce that Unsolicited Press has crafted a 2018 plan for the reprinting of my first two novels, and the publication of my new novel. Raking the Dust will be released in April, followed by Broken Land in … Continue reading →

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Book of Disquiet

Review of Fernando Pessoa’s Book of Disquiet, appearing in Riot Material. “Abandon hope all ye who enter here, might be the most fitting sign and qualifier preceding entry into the world of Disquiet. And yet, paradoxically, there is beauty, staggering, asphyxiating … Continue reading →

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Cubist Pin-Up

Psychically dismembered since birth, Grace walked her palms to her feet, and prayed that everything lost, in between, would return ritually transfigured.

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Arc

A siren’s coin of slivered light beading the tunnel’s darkened maw; a long night’s journey into day fulfills the promise of a fabled arc.    

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Comeback

Everything we attempt and seal creatively, every last and first word completed, reigns as beautiful failure, a mortal short-hand and forger’s touching testament to the Source, rounding what dreams may come and fade and come again.      

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Born in Translation

I sometimes think of writing as the vocational practice of learning to translate, with accuracy of spirit, the parts of me, unrecognized, unseen, unsigned, that echo from an intimately faraway hollow of interior space.  

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Song for the Meek

It has finally come, bearing a fount of bruised petals, blood-pink and white and reigning silvered silence, the year the meek inherit the earth, the plight of sensuous souls flown within to claim tenderest grace on loan from God’s rimless … Continue reading →

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