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.

Airway

Not-enough crawled out of me, an avatar wearing night-goggles caked in frost. It was an amateur when it came to daylight. Not-enough spends most of its life in nocturne, embedded crablike in a grotto: unseen, unheard. Which is why I … Continue reading →

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Mission Impossible

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Stand-In

Since I was young I have been seeking permission to exist. This I have sought from a variety of sources. And not just permission to exist, it had to be formal permission, perhaps an official document, or permission bestowed from … Continue reading →

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The Search (In Six Parts)

1. It has been a long, fruitless, and exhaustive search. Finding the dreamer who is dreaming you is damned near impossible. He or she or it is in there somewhere. In where, exactly? In where is the birthplace of existential … Continue reading →

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Mazzy Star

Many people think the singer is Mazzy Star but the singer is not Mazzy Star. The band is Mazzy Star. The singer is Hope Sandoval. I cannot remember the name of the other half of Mazzy Star, the man who … Continue reading →

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Not Enough

Not Enough came out of me like a homuncular chunk of greasy green cheese, oozing and bubbling pus that hissed and wheezed. Macro-snot meets goblin. I was taken aback. This had come out of me? How? Where? This had been … Continue reading →

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Freight

Red notebooks. Blue. Black. Yellow. Never green. I don’t know why not green, maybe some autistic glitch or allergy. Just never green. Over thirty years’ worth of notebooks, in which sketches and impressions have been dutifully registered, recorded, preserved. Mind-breaths … Continue reading →

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Us

There is something bluntly parenthetical about the ghosts which inhabit memory. And become us, if only in pronouns.

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Turning of the Screw

Memory as defiant neverland where cryogeny is the norm and no one grows up only inward. We bore into ourselves, screws to a tease.

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Maybe Next Time

I write as if someone is chasing me. As if I am being stalked. Or running out of time. Since childhood I have written this way, with a sense of heightened and red-hot urgency. There is someone or something behind … Continue reading →

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