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.

Kindle

Anatomy of an Ab-Ex blueprint for anarchic matter, or, how the viral network of Jackson Pollock’s warlock nerves & bones masquerade as kindling for future paintings and tomes.

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Shudder

Bracing the slide angle, where powerlessness begets a rim, a fingerhold at best. We play on, ordering encrypted light on dark notes, braving blights and chronic fade, we bless, jointly, by shudder and pale, with gospel caulking the sudden seams.

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Pour

So much light poured in, so much passive worth.

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Eden

It was no longer Eden, but the bones of Eden. They looked around, they glummed and chimped, they moped and wondered. Then what they did, ably penitent, refugees in their own backyard, they screwed to no avail. They screwed and … Continue reading →

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Deluge

It is both pleasure, and an epitaph to pleasure, at the same time. When the phenomena occurs and the colors run and slash and slit down upon me in ravels of deluge. Spring-green, shell-pink, sky-blue, bled-red, egg-heaven, grief-yellow. I, a … Continue reading →

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Irregular Haiku for Presidential Timbre (Or, Damn It Feels Good to be a Tone Deaf Gangsta)

His foot in his mouth, hand speaking in Pig Latin- Rab’em gay bitee ussy-pay.

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Feral

Seized, I am in the ripe feral grip of the new language she is speaking. Her voice fronting a glassy, ciphered edge, a grifting menace. Every calculated utterance bears double and triple meaning, with common intent to baffle, disarm, intrigue, … Continue reading →

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Plaything

Wafting from afar, the intimate rumor of a divine toy, a cryptic plaything, implications in tow. A tonic and pacifier of blank rages; buoy and anti-freeze to sudden plunges into sub-zero climate. These conditions cannot be bested, but they can … Continue reading →

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Corset

In a vain attempt, she corseted herself in green wind and cellophane, votive to a thin whip of air. As she lay there, colors emptying to gray, before the round voices and fast hands came, she fell in and saw … Continue reading →

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Bellwether

Lidless, the fluent graze of dispersive light, Braille for the heart by which to envision, or, how a river of eyes, vim and bellwethered, cite Forgiveness to tow the pending divide.

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