Category Archives: Prose

Travel Notes

Posted on October 8, 2026 by John Biscello

It was a town caught in the pinwheeling stasis between living and dying, between chrysalis and mortuary. I want to examine why it is I am drawn to places like this, why I always return to this specific feeling of … Continue reading →

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Flint

Posted on October 8, 2026 by John Biscello

And death shall have no dominion. How could it? It’s only a match with an overblown reputation.

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Outerwear

Posted on October 8, 2026 by John Biscello

The dark is the clothing in which our ghosts animate themselves.

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Paper Cuts

Posted on October 8, 2026 by John Biscello

 In the preferred company of words, a slow monarchy and infirmary is formed. Words paper over silence and wounds. Something about the dark blesses us.

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Neurodivergent Rabbits

Posted on October 8, 2026 by John Biscello

There’s no one left to finger, no one left to blame. Someone sang that. I wish I had sung that. I didn’t. I echo. I am echoes proliferating like genetically disturbed rabbits. Maybe neurodivergent rabbits copulating is a better term, … Continue reading →

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Sound of Silence

Posted on October 8, 2026 by John Biscello

In Federico Fellini’s film, 8 ½, the protagonist, Guido Anselmo, the cinematic avatar of Fellini, says—I have nothing to say, yet I am determined to say it. We mime silence by kissing words on the mouth.

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Whistle Stop

Posted on October 8, 2026 by John Biscello

It is a lonely road. The road made of words. The word stay put. The feelings don’t. The words crystallize, become the flambeed edges of something soft in the center. It is a struggle within, and a turn-on, mud-wrestling false … Continue reading →

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Seasons of the Mask

Posted on October 7, 2026 by John Biscello

The mask lifted. Autumn lisped. Lost, and lisping about a mausoleum of hours, days. It was a dry Marienbaddish summer. Which gave way to fall. You have to imagine it giving way: Summer, holding up its illustrious red velvet cape, … Continue reading →

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Dreamer’s Cheat Code

Posted on October 7, 2026 by John Biscello

A. I sit down at my desk and wonder about placeless places, non-specific locations, the Dreamer dreaming me … it is a way to pass the time. If time were passing, could be passed, over or under, this would be … Continue reading →

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Ineffably Yours

Posted on October 7, 2026 by John Biscello

There’s something seductive about a poem lending itself to the ineffable. Ineffable as in the fathomless and mysterious. Ineffable as in unfuckable. You could say the fathomless is unfuckable. Yet the cosmos is shapely and noir, so I succumb to … Continue reading →

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