Know What I Mean?

Posted on March 16, 2020 by John Biscello
“I don’t know”
might be the three most powerful
and talismanic words after:
“I love you.”
They are some of the truest finest words,
though they often get a bad rap,
or are maligned as weak, ineffectual,
lacking in the proper gusto and mettle.
“I don’t know”
is closest to the bones
and universal lore
of truth,
it is wedded to speculation, adrift in the teeming limbo
of deeper mystery—it takes the “I” from its very own statement,
and turns it on its head, giving the egoic self a well-deserved shake-up.
“I don’t know,” despite its discredited reputation,
is the aural equivalent to breathing room,
and the clandestine lover of humility.
“I don’t know,” is also one of those umbrella paradoxes,
in that it opens up to reveal a hidden, deeper knowing,
which is why rain and “I don’t know” get along so famously.
Try saying “I don’t know,” even if you feel absolutely certain
that you do know something, try it as a humble practice,
and give “I don’t know” a chance to grow like the greenest of prayers,
at first along the roof of your mouth, then into the black of your throat,
and before you know it your soul and “I don’t know” might find themselves buddied up,
a real vaudeville song-and-dance team,
and feelizations, which had been blocked off by solid stacks
and walls of knowing, will start to claim resonance
within your natural state
of fathomless being.
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Pascal’s Dog

Posted on March 16, 2020 by John Biscello
In this room, alone,
a calling to intimate
true worlds beyond veils.

 

blaise pascal

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Hand Me a Tissue

Posted on March 15, 2020 by John Biscello
It became known
as the time of the Great Wipe-Out,
when, within days, toilet paper
grew endangered, and then became extinct,
the dodo or passenger pigeon
of spool-rolled tissue,
and people, with unwiped bums
and infant-style rashes,
seized up and went blank,
suddenly forgetting that they could
place their asses in showers,
the tall kissing cousin to bidets,
and get those anal inner-cheek-stains
aquatically erased.
Toilet paper morphed from a privilege
and luxury item into a totemic irreplaceable
in no time flat.
Then it was gone.
Before it had a chance
to enjoy its newfound status
as the softly reigning icon and saint of the cabinet.
Somewhere, an unwiped ass is weeping,
while its host-body turns the other cheek,
afraid to face the fact that that
which is rotten in Denmark,
is intimately closer than you think.
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Touch

Posted on March 15, 2020 by John Biscello
On the day
that grace
re-entered the atmosphere,
there was a hush,
a sentient quilt of true silence,
that covered the pooling plague of static
which had made for ill communication,
and everyone feelized deeply
the limitless scope and range
of love’s liminal relation
to touch.
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We Could Be Heroes

Posted on March 15, 2020 by John Biscello
This Just In:
times of duress and crisis
need heroes, super or otherwise.
Find the one that lives inside you,
give her a name, give him a persona
or crafted style to claim.
And if you feel that you are lacking in powers,
super or otherwise, feel again,
from the wonder-wheeling wilds
of the heart’s limitless state of marvels,
and know that there is nothing
on this earth more powerful than Love,
to which you, and your hero, have free access
24-7, in every single shimmering radical molecule
that conjoins to play existential dress-up
in this ever-changing stage-play for souls
charged and running on light.
In case you’re wondering,
my hero’s name is Fool B. Real.
His star-sign is Archetype.

20180119_152314

 

 

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City of Velvet Fog

Posted on March 11, 2020 by John Biscello
Lamplit alley in the City of Velvet Fog.
From The Jackdaw and the Doll.

J&D5

 

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The Shroud

Posted on March 11, 2020 by John Biscello

K’s personal “Boogeyman”: The Shroud.

From The Jackdaw and the Doll.

J&D3

 

 

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The Storyteller

Posted on March 11, 2020 by John Biscello
Page from The Jackdaw and the Doll, a fable I wrote, which is being illustrated by Izumi Yokoyama. Inspired by a story about Franz Kafka.

J&D6

 

 

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This Glowing Yes

Posted on March 2, 2020 by John Biscello
The Fool lay down on his back
in the grass and stared
at the illuminated cursive pooling
of stars in the night-sky and mused—
If the entire universe
is a functioning example,
a play script and concert
operating fluidly under the impossible umbrella
of “Why Not?”
then it stands to reason that we,
children of the stars,
are the privileged inheritors
and rightful claimants
of an innate cosmic streak of experiential boldness,
which engages the daring music of “Why Not?”
to the holy scroll of life, unfolding,
back to front,
with you, a respiring signature,
and improv sketch of molecules,
well-lighted
and measureless,
except to say Yes.
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The Master and The Fool: An Archer’s Tale

Posted on February 28, 2020 by John Biscello
The accomplished archer, the Master if you will,
handed the bow to his initiate, who many referred to as the Fool.
The Master pointed at the target, some fifty feet or so away,
and instructed the Fool to hit the bullseye without aiming.
The Fool drew back on his bow, cutting a taut figure of symmetry
on this windless day, then suddenly wheeled around, facing backwards,
and shot the arrow in a gliding arc into the target-less air.
What are you doing, the Master reprimanded.
Can’t you see where the target is?
The Fool smiled shyly and set down his bow in the grass.
Yes, that’s why I shot my arrow where I did.
The Master, who was noticeably perturbed, walked over to the target,
and rapped his knuckles against its demarcated center.
THIS is the bullseye.
The Fool, who did not want to contradict the Master, nor generate conflict,
responded, somewhat evasively—Well, yea, I guess it is … can I show you something?
The Master walked back to where the Fool was standing.
The Fool raised his hands above his head and made broad, sweeping, circular gestures,
saying—The air is everywhere, right? So, just as I was about to shoot, it suddenly came to me that if I were to ignore the limited target with the marked bullseye and just shoot the arrow into the air, I couldn’t miss.
Miss what, the Master questioned.
The target. In the air, there are no targets. So in a sense, everywhere is the target. Very freeing, don’t you think?
Yes, but, but—the Master stammered, his brain no longer cooperating.
Or perhaps that is just archery for fools, I don’t know, the Fool grinned littleboyishly.
The Master placed his hand on the Fool’s shoulder and said—Or perhaps it is strain of wisdom that I missed, that my knowledge and skill as a master archer blocked me from seeing.
And so the Master and the Fool spent the rest of that windless day doing it the Fool’s Way,
simultaneously hitting every single bullseye and none at all,
and laughing like children nestled in the cushy lap of Eternity,
where arrows are destined to kiss air, just because.
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