Category Archives: Poetry

Missive

Posted on October 5, 2020 by John Biscello

Letter from Wonderland– Dear Miss So-and-So, Your husband injured himself chasing a young girl in fuzzy pink rabbit ears down a dark narrow hole. Do not expect him home any time soon. Yours Truly, A Secret Admirer.   #5 from … Continue reading →

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The Replacement

Posted on October 5, 2020 by John Biscello

The course couldn’t be changed, same as the sounds coming from the other side of the door, which belonged to her broken-in replacement. She waited, for something to stop, or perhaps to knock and show that the next move was … Continue reading →

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Soap Drama

Posted on October 5, 2020 by John Biscello

She thought about it at least once every night. What it would be like if he wasn’t there, if she, with delicate blankness befitting a housewife, mixed his cocktail in a new way a different way, just once, then watched … Continue reading →

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Enigma

Posted on October 5, 2020 by John Biscello

Rapt fascination– when the enigmatic meets the readily apparent in an effort to fashion and sustain identity from the lore of diminishing returns.   #2 in the Untitled Film Poems series Image by Cindy Sherman

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Legacy

Posted on October 5, 2020 by John Biscello

After watching the bruised legacy of her childhood pass her by out of the corner of her eye, she had developed an astigmatism which, in effect, bred her glaring suspicion of distance, and violent need of its diffuse edges.   … Continue reading →

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The Writing Life

Posted on September 25, 2020 by John Biscello

These are the tools of my trade. I have written in spiral-bound notebooks, college-ruled, for a long time. They are always of varying colors. Red, yellow, blue, purple, black. Never green. I write with a Zebra F-402 ballpoint pen, black … Continue reading →

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In Search of Lost Time

Posted on September 18, 2020 by John Biscello

A meditation on memory, longing, storytelling and spiritual homesickness.

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Coils

Posted on September 8, 2020 by John Biscello

To caper at the edge, where the seething lyric happens, poetry with slits and fast teeth, where the hours of phenomena are boiled and reduced to a single quivering instant, an umbilical knot of light upon tenderest scraps and coils.

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Ravels

Posted on September 7, 2020 by John Biscello

At the wound’s core, dark luscious ravels of text, courting, inviolate measures, the fathomless brood of Beauty’s End.

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Craft

Posted on September 7, 2020 by John Biscello

How a writer, cave-timing dark and solitude, annoints an ember by crafting the small hours into a flagrant torch.

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