Author Archives: John Biscello

Unknown's avatar

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.

Seance

Posted on September 18, 2025 by John Biscello

It was a time in her life when she was not there, not inside herself or her life. And she was pregnant. Pregnant by the wrong man, so many wrong turns and wrong men, and this one, a mislaid night … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Moonstruck

Posted on September 17, 2025 by John Biscello

A lamp clicks on. A swath of gauzy light projects cinematically onto a chrome operating table, where an umbrella and a sewing machine are making love. Are about to make love. Have already made love. Their romance transcends tenses and … Continue reading →

Posted in Artwork, Cinema, photography, Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Moratorium

Posted on September 17, 2025 by John Biscello

I. Beckett spoke about it: the inability to keep quiet. The incapacity to not say stories, not write stories, not place oneself inside stories in which you make and unmake and remake yourself endlessly, an orgy of particles constellating jittery … Continue reading →

Posted in Artwork, Books, Cinema, photography, Poetry, Press, Prose, Theater | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Dance

Posted on September 16, 2025 by John Biscello

Her hips began the snakedance, the spasmodic erotic wiggle. She told me to listen closely, and her hips began hissing a slow cadence, the world losing its air, the world a depleted lunar asthmatic in need of oxygen blasts. My … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Feathers

Posted on September 16, 2025 by John Biscello

As she moved her bladed hips beneath him, small dark starshaped birds tore out of her hips, nipping at the air, and were then immediately sucked back into her hips, as if by an invisible vacuum. He stopped, and asked—What … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Hips Don’t Lie

Posted on September 16, 2025 by John Biscello

The hips don’t lie. They are the truth-telling giants, and the whistle-blowers transmitting through pirate radio. They are also the catacombs and weather satellites of one’s cumulative genealogy. When an old person falls and breaks their hip, it is not … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Hips

Posted on September 16, 2025 by John Biscello

I can no longer remember where I was when it happened, only that it happened, it must have happened. Sometimes we cry silent recordings in our bones, or guts, or maybe it is our hips that are the primary storehouses … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Mirror

Posted on September 15, 2025 by John Biscello

She opened her stomach. I took out my lighter, produced a flame, and cast light into the darkness. I saw a single object, a mirror. A square mirror with a baroque metal exterior: cursive, elegant. I saw part of my … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Sideshow

Posted on September 15, 2025 by John Biscello

Let me show you, she said. She proceeded to open her stomach, almost as if she were made from wood or metal, something not flesh, and it cleanly opened to reveal a dark chamber. I stood there, not sure what … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Last Furies: Now Available!

Posted on September 14, 2025 by John Biscello

I am excited to share the news that my novel, The Last Furies, has officially been released, and is available in paperback, e-book and audio-book editions.  The book has been published by Lost Telegram Press, an indie publisher based out of Ontario, … Continue reading →

Posted in Artwork, Audio, Books, Cinema, photography, Poetry, Press, Prose, Publications, Theater, Uncategorized, Video | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment