Category Archives: Poetry

Moonstruck

Posted on August 9, 2022 by John Biscello

From scratch, we dig out what we think the moon owes us– Lore of attraction.

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Gift

Posted on August 9, 2022 by John Biscello

Within the scarry stories of the heart lived a little girl with no actual name who gave stars as playthings to all her imaginary friends.

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Window for Two

Posted on August 9, 2022 by John Biscello

Do you plan to get up today Max? No Marge, you? I am up. You plan on staying up? No, just wanted a spot of tea. That’s very British of you. What is? A spot of tea . . . … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose, Theater | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

To a Young Writer Whom I Have Yet to Meet or May Never Know

Posted on August 9, 2022 by John Biscello

Finding and following your own voice is vitally important.  Yet that idea can be extended to: finding and following your own voices.  They are inside you.  Many of them.  Who knows why they are there, and from where they came.  … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Ghostwritten Posthumously

Posted on August 9, 2022 by John Biscello

  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 →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Come Wander With Me

Posted on August 9, 2022 by John Biscello

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 →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Our Lady of Dust

Posted on August 8, 2022 by John Biscello

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 →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Girl on a Bike

Posted on August 5, 2022 by John Biscello

   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 →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Cherry’s Eyes

Posted on August 5, 2022 by John Biscello

   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 →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Balloon and Jukebox

Posted on August 4, 2022 by John Biscello

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 →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment