Star

There was never
going to be
any show,
she knew that.
Yet she fed
on the light
to counteract
an unappeasable hunger,
to star
where the emptiness
reamed darkest.

#62 from Untitled Film Poems
Image by Cindy Sherman
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Oxygen

Out here,

things were different.

The rough patches felt,

if not smoother,

then at least manageable.

This was also a place

where she could check

her dreams at the door,

and not pay them

the kind of mind

that always left her gasping for air

where little to none was available.

#61 from Untitled Film Poems

Image by John Biscello

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Arson

All it would take
is a single match,
and everything inside her
that had dried into tinder.
Funny,
that it would be
the house and not her
engulfed in flames,
but the heat would blister
and violently press needles into her skin,
so she could feel the weight of collapse,
and know that, despite the lack
of physical evidence, a significant part
of who she was
would find burial, if not peace,
in siege and ash.

#60 from Untitled Film Poems
Image by Cindy Sherman
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Perspective

The hidden symmetry
in going
is that its patterns
don’t reveal themselves
until hindsight
fans out
and clarifies
the marvels of letting
and perspective.

#59 from Untitled Film Poems

Image by Cindy Sherman

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Not-It-Girl

Did you want a bitch,
or a super-heroine?
Or perhaps just a mop
and bucket for sticky linoleum,
for hangovers that crawl
into high-rise offices?
Whatever it is you want
or need,
forget me,
I’m not the “it”
tagged in your game–
I claim me as my own,
sister to the shapeless wind
which calls me away
and further away still,
toward the raw
and permeable unknown.

#58 from Untitled Film Poems
Image by Cindy Sherman

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Storytime

There had been rumors,

hints, warnings,

about the nature

of certain fairy tales

that fucked you

in the end—

The trees bent

to listen, or rather

to feel

the story of her grief

soaking into the earth

and slaking the thirst

of whetted roots.

#57 from Untitled Film Poems

Image by Cindy Sherman

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The Fissure King

It was only now,
after the split
had occurred,
that his exact words
returned to the surface—
I am in love
with the aesthetics
of your sorrow—
and this makes you wonder
how much of you he saw,
how much of you he missed,
and more importantly,
where the hell were you
during this joint crisis
of perception?

#56 from Untitled Film Poems
Image by Cindy Sherman
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Shadow Play

Some shadows
become women
when no one
is looking.
Consider it
the residual alchemy
of fallout
and mortal longing.

#55 from Untitled Film Poems
Image by Cindy Sherman
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In the Still of the Night

Bare white knuckles
grazed
her nightbitten lobe
as she turned
up her collar
to the cold
and was seized
with a grave sense
of how lonely she had been
and how much further
she had to go
to grieve the bated loss
of person or persons
unknown.

#54 from Untitled Film Poems
Image by Cindy Sherman

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Arson & Grace: Collected Plays

I am happy to announce that a collection of my plays is scheduled for publication with CSF Publishing. The collection, which is titled Arson & Grace, will feature eight of my plays, all of which have enjoyed a production life here in Taos, New Mexico. 

The plays featured in the collection are: LOBSTERS ON ICE, ADAGIO FOR STRAYS, ZEITGEIST, U.S.A., NURSERY BONES, WHEN IN ROME, PAN, THE BEST MEDICINE, and, WEREWOLVES DON’T WALTZ. 
Listed below is a blurb for the collection. And several images from productions past. More news coming when a publication date is scheduled. 

ARSON & GRACE: Think of the book you are now holding in your hands as a black-market passport to a realm of lucid dreams and savage jest. Or as the splintered signpost to a crossroads where pop culture, mythology and surrealism intersect. Spanning a thirteen-year-period (2003-2016), Arson & Grace comprises eight plays written by John Biscello. In a world, which is warped sibling to ours, and reflected back to us through funhouse mirrors, you will find love, death, madness and family dysfunction given fresh theatrical makeovers, while meeting a motley assortment of characters straddling the blurred lines between reality and illusion. From penile-enlarged patriarchy to airports where babies are confiscated to werewolves who don’t waltz, the spirit of commedia dell’arte and “zanni,” is alive and well in the Wonderland playscapes of Biscello. Abandon reason all ye who enter here—and trespass lightly.  

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