Category Archives: Poetry

Garden

Posted on September 9, 2026 by John Biscello

Memory as night-flowers blooming jade and jasmine in fields of intuition. Old folks bend over backwards to become children again listening to the honeyed sepia fragrance wafting northward, restoring calm and grace, briefly, to lives tasted in half-tones and measureless … Continue reading →

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Room

Posted on September 9, 2026 by John Biscello

Memory as eulogies in reverse. You tell yourself a story, same as you tell yourself a memory– the supplest rites of cosplay and seance conducted, first person, in a room of one’s own naming.

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Moby

Posted on September 9, 2026 by John Biscello

Scraps, tatters, and the deluge of mindfill flickering, animating, and magnetically assembling your rumored origins into chamber cinema– you, and you alone watching the graffitied runes of a life, or many lives, curated, transcribed, and projected onto an empathic white … Continue reading →

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Cinema-Scope

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

Engraved in the shadows of cinema I found myself watching myself circled by ghosts whose bluest breath of want revived me in mercurial doses. I knew that if I kept watching I would go on. The question then became not … Continue reading →

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P.S.S.

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

Memories supply ghosts with their own ghosts haunting lives yet to come or recoccur in sundered part.

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Pool

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

My mother’s face. What about the rest of her? My mother carried within herself, like the gothic utburd, the dead child of motherless. Motherless lived inside my mother, beside her. In these motherless places dark things grew, which I would … Continue reading →

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Three to Five

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

I do not want to see the face of God, I want to see her mask, where and for whom it cracked. These lines hail from a poem, “Claim for the Meek,” written by Bernardo Antwerp. I am specifically thinking … Continue reading →

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Board Game

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

It is inescapable. This I know, and begrudgingly accept. Yet, do I begrudgingly accept it? Or do I just say that because what alternative do I have? I can kick and scream like a five-year-old in the paroxysms of a … Continue reading →

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Tuesday

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

You send yourself letters endlessly. They are postmarked from the future, some future date, some invented date, or the dates are all over the map—future and past switch places like Tuesday and Thursday, or Sunday and Monday. That is to … Continue reading →

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Now Showing

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

In the shadow-carved cinema of memory, its mortuary and altars, the gauzy feting of ghosts, alluring you with the promise of exits and second lives. Follow our unbearably light drift, they monotone in surround-sound stereo, we will provide you the … Continue reading →

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