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.

Ghostwritten Posthumously

  Now that he was dead, everything was different.  No more desire or ambition, no more pressures or expectations.  All of that had gone the instant his human life had expired.    As a ghost, at first he wondered how … Continue reading →

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Come Wander With Me

She, from a young age, understood that she possessed an interiority complex. That, no matter where she went, all roads lead back to herself, to the worlds within.    I don’t exist out there, not really. Out there, I am … Continue reading →

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Our Lady of Dust

They taught us dust. Those were our lessons. We sang dust. Sermons in dust. We ate dust. Sometimes the dust we ate was inseminated with sunlight that insisted upon the rotting wood of the windowsill, the worm-eaten wood. That sill … Continue reading →

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Girl on a Bike

   I bike through the swirling dust. The dust pinches my skin. The dust is cinematic. It seems, nowadays, everything is cinematic. Novels, TV, reality, cinema … dust. We have become cinemanesthasized. We are in a trance. How long will … Continue reading →

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Cherry’s Eyes

   Cherry went to the strip club just because. Just because she had heard things about strip clubs. Just because the strip club belonged to fathomless caves and Cherry was motivated to spelunk.    Cherry, new-old upon this earth, would … Continue reading →

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Balloon and Jukebox

She would name the balloon Clarice. She always thought she should have been named Clarice. Perhaps in another life. Clarice was yellow. She decided that Clarice should go on a journey. She would open the window and let her out. … Continue reading →

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As Below, So Above

She came to me when I was a child. When I was two. An angel with massive wings which, when extended, generated a musical whoosh and siege of air that felt like a hurricane to my small world. My small … Continue reading →

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Blue Jukebox

She passed through the beads dangling in the doorway. Echoes of beads rattling, like glassy cricket bones crunched, her moving forward, stopping at the counter, men’s heads turning, as if on rubbery swivels, none say a word, wordless the men … Continue reading →

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Fireflies

All these stories– Fireflies in a garden, on a moonless night.

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Upon Closer Examination

There is a slow burn to holy. The headwaters of holy froth and burble and fizz and speak scandalously in serpent’s alabaster tongues. Do not mistake symbols for metaphors. Do not mistake doors for exits. Your dreams need not possess … Continue reading →

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