Ballad of the Cuckoos

Posted on July 9, 2019 by John Biscello
Our little-cuckoo-that-could is beginning to stir its wings. The pre-launch page for our Indiegogo campaign, which will launch in September, is now live. Please visit the page and subscribe to our email list (it’s free and easy) and follow the evolution of our film. This will help us generate momentum and get the energetic ball rolling, as we move forward with our inspired labor of love. Also, we would deeply appreciate it if you would consider sharing this page and helping us spread the word.
Thank you, blogging-community-at-large, here’s to creative living and to turning dreams into cinematic reality!

Cuckoos

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Traces

Posted on July 9, 2019 by John Biscello
cindy # 33
The letters ran together,
a blur, and vicious assembly,
which forced her to comprehend
 an absence, with no prints to register.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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Under and Above

Posted on July 9, 2019 by John Biscello
cindy #46
As a child,
they had tried to scare her
with stories of Jaws,
and other undersea dangers.
Her mother wanted her to be safe,
which meant keeping her as close to shore
as possible.
Now, out there, alone, bobbing,
she clearly understood
just how vast and unforgiving a mother
the sea was, or could be,
and how, by radical turn,
she had become the water baby,
unafraid to submerge.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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Folds

Posted on July 9, 2019 by John Biscello
cindy # 36
Backlit to claim form,
the shadow slipped over her
and bared its longing.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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At Present

Posted on July 9, 2019 by John Biscello
cindy #39
Everything dissolved anyway,
was how she consoled herself.
She would do something,
she would plant yellow daisies
in the garden
first thing tomorrow morning,
yellow seemed appropriate, yes,
even though the idea
of morning
seemed far-off
and left her feeling
queasy and unsure.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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Against the Grain

Posted on July 7, 2019 by John Biscello
cindy #83
Two things clawed at her mind—
this was no way for a brain to behave,
and why couldn’t she remember
the fucking mantra,
it was designed to help
and she sure as shit
had paid enough for it.
As she considered alternatives,
including taking another sick day,
green
and gray
washed over her,
with tacit indifference.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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Cabin Fever

Posted on July 7, 2019 by John Biscello
cs_37
A getaway,
he had reasoned brightly,
it will be good for us,
give us a chance to reconnect.
Why did everything he said
always sound perfectly rehearsed,
a conviction born of rote directive?
Was it the way he spoke,
the way she listened,
a tense combination of both?
Yes,
she had heard herself softly mimicking,
it could be good for us,
and later, at the cabin,
she found herself wondering
if compliance was the same as lying,
or simply a natural extension
of the fiction
which their lives had agreed upon
as a matter of necessary course.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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Remains of the Day

Posted on July 7, 2019 by John Biscello
cindy-sherman-untitled-film-still-9
From where she sat,
the house seemed to be
swaddled in sheer gauze,
and flickering, like a light
that was about to go out.
She considered adjusting her view
to dispel what must be an illusion,
but there was something terribly satisfying
about the polarizing effects
of her, here,
them, there,
and what would happen, if.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)

 

 

 

 

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Soap Serial

Posted on July 5, 2019 by John Biscello
cindy #10
If someone
would have told her
it would be like giving birth
to a checklist of domestic
servitude
and falsely fresh
produce
on a numbingly repeatable basis,
she might have seriously pursued
her childhood dream
of running away with the circus
and giving her body
ala contortion
to a wildly applauding
yet hands-off audience.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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Minor to Major

Posted on July 5, 2019 by John Biscello
cindy #25
Had she done the right thing?
And by right thing
what or whose standards
was she applying
to measure the moral correctness
or lack thereof
of what she had done?
She had grown sick
and tired of considering
every angle and X-factor,
sick and tired
of a brain
hellbent on sabotage.
Self-forgiveness,
as a conceivable balm,
seemed faraway
and unreal,
but she would travel
whatever vagaries of distance
kept at bay
who she was
from who she was
determined to become.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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