Category Archives: Poetry

Howl II

Posted on March 12, 2017 by John Biscello

(Poem written in response to Joe Sorren’s “While the Trucks on the Highway All Howl”) While the trucks on the highway all howl, beneath a milk-bottle sky, Sunday’s children, curious and bulb-headed, lay vigorous claim to Paradise. Non-profit architects, they … Continue reading →

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Solvent

Posted on March 5, 2017 by John Biscello

Water, like a tempera of fog, buoying the natal intent, the fragile rapture, against which gravity sets an insoluble course.

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Double Exposure

Posted on March 5, 2017 by John Biscello

I. There is strange music in her head, a choir’s brew. You cannot see it but, in the bask of a sunchecked idle, she drifts beyond ordinary logic to dream of water like melted locks, like aquamarine flowers silk to … Continue reading →

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Morningbreak

Posted on March 3, 2017 by John Biscello

  I want to eat Anne Sexton for breakfast like toxic cereal like bacon fat like sunbursts of egg yolk swallowed whole and washed down with a glass of fire (then I will spit up the flames burning down the … Continue reading →

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Cloud Nine

Posted on February 15, 2017 by John Biscello

Dylan Thomas falls from his barstool in Heaven— God, tending bar, picks him up, turns to Job—Who am I to judge?

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Metamorphosis

Posted on February 10, 2017 by John Biscello

On the day I was turned to stone all mirrors were instantly abolished and silence became that gilded golden thing I had heard so much about and the stillness of time slowed to a moist chafing pardon where I was … Continue reading →

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They Are Their Own

Posted on February 6, 2017 by John Biscello

Do you know where your children are? Or rather who, in their ripening pedigree and new language they are in the process of becoming? Make no mistake they are not nor have they ever been yours belonging infinitely to the … Continue reading →

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Meaning of the Mob

Posted on February 1, 2017 by John Biscello

The Meaning of the Mob.  I say, the Mob, meaning the Definitely Uncertain, Fixed—a liberal form of physics— or the clotted swarm wallforming brick by brick, a mosaic pattern.      Pick a number, any number, it’s a given. A given what, … Continue reading →

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Inheritance

Posted on December 29, 2016 by John Biscello

Amidst divisive riot, the clear sound of two tears mating upon the crest of a sunken cheek; a mother’s grief, near to fasting and silence, the warmest cross to inherit in holding the meek inviolate.

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Winter, a Love Story

Posted on December 22, 2016 by John Biscello

Winter’s brides, wearing long white scarves of sleet and song, touching pale sky to blue lips, breathing memory and frost; their sorrow and spectral want grows hands  that enclose me, a robust crush, matrimonial in its grip, until I am … Continue reading →

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