Author Archives: John Biscello

Unknown's avatar

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.

Transit

Posted on February 28, 2024 by John Biscello

No words to describe this passing sense, here now gone— Dreaming in real-time.  

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

Portrait

Posted on February 28, 2024 by John Biscello

In the hospitable equation of a bicycle, lighted doors and people we cannot see, a hypnogogic nocturne forms of its own accord, begetting incalculable solitude and lore to the trespasses of dreaming.

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

Penumbra

Posted on February 28, 2024 by John Biscello

We practice intimacy in scales, from a near warmed distance— a concentrated swath of light, calling us forth, entreats our internal orphan to find fugitive solace in the softly respiring aura of solitude.

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

Night Beat

Posted on February 28, 2024 by John Biscello

It is in these moments when the pumpkin orange glow of the lanterns softens the streets and the bicycles lined up in rows compose portraits of ordered symmetry, that the night turns in on itself, and with it goes I, … Continue reading →

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

Melodrama

Posted on February 22, 2024 by John Biscello

Let’s start with this photo, the comic melodrama in which you, perfectly staged, are wearing a blue pinafore dress, your dark hair gagged in pigtails, mouth heavily lipsticked, cheeks cherubically rouged, your eyes two flashing ovals of abyss-pooling licorice, sweat … Continue reading →

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

Blue

Posted on February 22, 2024 by John Biscello

I knew this. Even before I met her, I knew this. But she, as an explicit confirmation, as a caretaker and symbiotic mouthpiece to my unsaid secrets, said, and so concisely—Dreams come out of the blue, returning to the blue. … Continue reading →

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

Play

Posted on February 22, 2024 by John Biscello

I have to imagine her death from every conceivable angle. She has assured me she will disappear, said that dying is a trick of the light, and everyone was enamored of the mirage, convinced, in on it, the gag. When … Continue reading →

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

Stand-Up

Posted on February 22, 2024 by John Biscello

This is not a not a novel. This is a rhapsody. I rhapsodize, I bubble, I ferment, I fount. The amassing of word-shaped sounds have become rhapsodies, digressions, solos within spheres and platforms of soul-sounding species and choruses, the every … Continue reading →

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

Recorded Live

Posted on February 22, 2024 by John Biscello

In the cinema, hypnotized. I died a drugged and stupefied death again and again, crucified by the diminished returns of flickering images. I die, tranquilized, a sweetly solemn refugee from reality. This is the escapist way, its creed. Why pretend … Continue reading →

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

In the Dark

Posted on February 22, 2024 by John Biscello

If cinema is a tomb, then let us die watching. The angel over my shoulder is hunched, opaque, morphing. None of us ever leave behind the dark of the theater.  We are here, always. Sanctuary, haven, enclave, respite, sitting tight … Continue reading →

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