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.

Feelism

Feelism: emotional subjectivity filtered through the prism of Memory; story-seeds rooted in sensual Nostalgia. In my book, this is what happened has always taken a backseat to this is how it felt.

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Slant

Emily Dickinson advised that we “tell it slant.” This makes sense. Telling it slant is a natural outgrowth of living it slant. Oblique paths and slanted paths dominate my sense of inner geography. Dylan Thomas wrote: “The memories of childhood … Continue reading →

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Silent Night

The ongoing rabble and cinematic narrative in my mind is finding how nourishing and full and tender the heart can grow steeped in silence alone.  

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Wellspring

Through the grace of repetition, the writing life grounded in the slow, wistful measures of wellspring’s fortune.

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Peerless

Fasting on remedial prayers, hunger flinting the strike of peerless light at tunnel’s end.

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Burn

Slow burn of words on a page, how to listen raptly between intervals of felt silence and tapped nerves.

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Backroads

Traveling mapless backroads, I found heaven looking for me.

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Flea Bitten

Greyhound: A sleek, streamlined, swift-as-the-wind breed of dog. A coughing, sputtering, wheezing, smoke-blowing mutt, prone to flea infestation.    I spent a great deal of my twenties canned inside the dank sweaty armpit of travel Americana: Greyhound.  It was an … Continue reading →

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Fullness

When the clean quiet fullness of your heart rises and begins to drown the rabble in your head in white light, within and without become clear matching mirrors.  

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Saturday Night Russian

   It was Jake who first called Anya the Saturday Night Russian. It started when Anya was twelve. Up until that point her wardrobe had been pretty subdued, pretty ordinary. Jeans or capris, T-shirts, sandals or sneakers. Then, seemingly overnight, … Continue reading →

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