Category Archives: Poetry

Operating Theater

Posted on November 13, 2025 by John Biscello

   I have become moonless in my grief, a paled comparison. But to what? To who I used to be? What I expected to become? I feel as if I’ve been laid out on an operating table, and Time, as … Continue reading →

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Empire Strikes Back

Posted on November 13, 2025 by John Biscello

   Her hips began the snake-dance, the spasmodic wiggle. She told me to listen closely, and her hips began hissing a slow cadence, the world losing its air, the world a depleted lunar asthmatic in need of oxygen blasts. My … Continue reading →

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That Thing With Feathers

Posted on November 13, 2025 by John Biscello

   As she moved her bladed hips beneath him, small dark starshaped birds tore out of her hips, scissoring the air, and were then immediately sucked back into her hips, as if by an invisible vacuum.    He stopped, and … Continue reading →

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Pirate Radio

Posted on November 13, 2025 by John Biscello

   Hips don’t lie. They are the truth-telling giants and the whistle-blowers transmitting through pirate radio. They are also the catacombs and weather satellites of one’s cumulative genealogy. When an old person falls and breaks their hip, it is not … Continue reading →

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Gremlins

Posted on November 13, 2025 by John Biscello

   I can no longer remember where I was when it happened, only that it happened, it must have happened. Sometimes we cry silent recordings in our bones, or guts, or maybe it is our hips that are the primary … Continue reading →

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Hips Don’t Lie

Posted on November 13, 2025 by John Biscello
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Last Furies in L.A.

Posted on November 12, 2025 by John Biscello

I am excited to share that in support of my new novel, The Last Furies, I will be headed to L.A. to do a reading and book-signing in January. This event will be a collaboration with my dear friend, fellow … Continue reading →

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3 AM

Posted on November 12, 2025 by John Biscello

Sometimes we wake up at 3am and we don’t know who we are, how we got there (where is there), why anything. Why at all. In these ghostly interstices, we try to locate ourselves in absentia—we awaken to no purpose, … Continue reading →

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Slight

Posted on November 12, 2025 by John Biscello

   A young woman came to see me yesterday. I know it’s my daughter, yet something stops the word daughter from coming out of my mouth, any of my mouths. There is word-daughter and there is daughter-daughter and word-daughter is … Continue reading →

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A Moveable Freeze

Posted on November 12, 2025 by John Biscello

   The first spots were discovered, and contrary to my sense of fiction, they had nothing to do with extraterrestrials or loneliness. Nor poverty. Soon, no exact timetable, but soon my memories would no longer be mine. I would no … Continue reading →

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