Category Archives: Artwork

Van Gogh, Wheat Field

Posted on May 18, 2016 by John Biscello

It is what you might call omen-brushed yellow, a virulent scare, its quotient graded just below dark, and subtly so. A sky raining crows, like a scandal of mustaches, or handlebar dissent. Yellow crosses daring a blight, or braving a … Continue reading →

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Banana: Love, Andy

Posted on May 17, 2016 by John Biscello

A religious protuberance, a monkey’s Marxist gag. To be eaten, to be peddled, to be inserted or diagnosed, a digestible comic device, precursor to aerial pies and throwaway wives. Banana. As a word, it teases and amuses, does not take … Continue reading →

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Flicker

Posted on May 16, 2016 by John Biscello

(In response to Josef Sudek’s “Morning Viaducts”) Can you hear, the cobbled morning streets gathering in thick coarse hands the staccato clang of hooves and thin gray voices arising from the ghosts of people caught in a sudden sonata? Can … Continue reading →

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Red Herrings, Chinese Whispers

Posted on May 16, 2016 by John Biscello

  Excerpt from my new novel Raking the Dust: Over the next couple of hours we compressed our lives into annotated and selective biographies that we laid on the table, right next to our drinks. That’s how D.J. came to … Continue reading →

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Girl in Yellow Raincoat, and Dog

Posted on May 16, 2016 by John Biscello

The rain, like gospel acid, dissolves and revives in equal measures. Parts of girl and dog, melted, weeping off the shallow cliff of curbside. The girl’s features have been washed away by the storm, yet the embryonic portrait of her … Continue reading →

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O’ Keefe, Yellow Flower

Posted on May 15, 2016 by John Biscello

The sex of yellow, its pealed strife and resin. Or how a specter, a sensual crumple and crepe, butter-tongued, makes time with a pair of honeyed tonsils, coercing a holler, a yodel, aria raging blonde over brood, the Belle’s Seduction, … Continue reading →

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Almost Found in Translation

Posted on May 12, 2016 by John Biscello

  If, by chance or mistake, I have given you inscrutable glyphs, it is only because I, the translator, struggle mightily and mostly fail to translate the parts of me gone missing.

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Gondola

Posted on May 11, 2016 by John Biscello

Distance, the middle ground between lovers locked in psychic undress; a ritual burlesque exposing wounds, we reverse course and seed safe harbors at the expense of metaphor and masks; intimacy skinned to savor a new course, near to grace, unfiltered.

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Furls

Posted on May 10, 2016 by John Biscello

Feted, by an angel’s glassy hands, slow-burning river of sound, pooling white fire in rounded furls.

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Kafka, Waking in the Morning

Posted on May 9, 2016 by John Biscello

Between dreams, he woke to night-bells ringing in the early morning— the riskiest time of day. The fog outside his room, thick as cat’s feet, treading softly on his mind, and after rubrubbing the sheep from his eyes, he stared … Continue reading →

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