The Gospel According to Skin

Posted on November 27, 2018 by John Biscello
Today
I woke
to the pulsing
ribbed memory
of that night
you wore nothing except
a knotted bodice of white flags,
and my mouth, prey to your body’s religion,
submitted gospel
as a savage
flagrant reform
to amen.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Every Breath You Take, the Remix

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello
By revolving gradations
of blue
I have loved you,
have sunken to airless depths
trying to breathe you in,
every dammed bubble
sealing the green of memory
in a small forever place
where cherish is softened
by reams of fading light.

 

 

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Alms

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello
There is something
about the holiest seethe
that keeps us golden-green
migrant beggars,
bartering stigmata
for leavened alms
to persist,
this side of dreaming.

 

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Lip Reading

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello
Kissing,
where the vibrato slug of tongue
plugs in to electrical temporal heaven
for a singed sprint through molten puddles.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Instructions on How to Use a Blade

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello
To ask
how deep
is not the right question
of the blade,
but rather,
how much moon,
if any,
is reflected in the silver of your teeth
when piercing skin
to venerate pink?
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Flow Chart

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello
There’s something about filing
a mortal grievance with angels
that’s reassuring.
As if,
there you are,
casually adrift
on a slow-moving
first-class
glassy blue glacier,
going out to sea,
and you cheerfully wave goodbye
to yourself,
entrusting the course of dream
to so much fade
and mist.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Cabinet

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello
man ray.png
A white room. Like burnished ivory, like karmic burden.
Cut to a close-up on the back of a shaved head and neck. Several scars are visible on the back of the head.
Cut to a medium distance shot, in which the head and neck are in the foreground, and in the background, a body, visible only from the chest down.
Shirtless, thin build, cocoa-skinned, wearing tight electric blue leather pants.
The Body shuttles back and forth, back and forth, an interrogator on a horizontal pulley.
When the Body begins to question the Head, the camera goes in and out of focus, eventually settling on soft focus.
Body’s voice is soft, valium-inflected.
BODY
Did you do it a lot?
HEAD
We didn’t do it. He did it. He.
BODY
So it was done to you?
HEAD
Yes.
BODY
(to someone off-screen)
Make note of that.
Sound of typewriter keys clacking.
BODY
How did it begin?
HEAD
I don’t remember.
BODY
When did it happen?
HEAD
You mean time of day and stuff?
BODY
Yes.
HEAD
I don’t remember.
(Silence)
BODY exits.
Returns with a banana. Peels it. Eats it in several bites. We still don’t see above the BODY’S chest.
BODY
But it did happen, right?
HEAD
Yes. I can tell how you how it ended.
BODY
Go ahead. If you’d like.
HEAD
Right after I turned twelve he asked me if I wanted it to stop. He said I was getting older and it was probably a good idea if we stopped. If I wanted to. That was exactly how he put it.
BODY
And what did you say?
HEAD
I said—Okay—though I didn’t really know what I was saying okay to.
BODY
What do you mean?
HEAD
I wasn’t sure what we were talking about.
Shot grows fuzzy, roar of static. The sound of other voices, like overlapping frequencies on a CB. Picture eventually clears.
BODY
You didn’t know?
HEAD
When I thought about what he said, I felt like I was sticking my head in a black hole.
BODY
So you didn’t know?
HEAD
I don’t fucking know what I knew, I told you that I felt like my head was in a black hole, isn’t that enough?
BODY
(to offscreen person)
Please make note of the black hole.
Sound of typewriter keys clacking.
BODY takes a photo from his pocket, holds it up.
BODY
Is this him?
HEAD
No. It’s someone who looks like him.
BODY
What do you mean, someone who looks like him?
HEAD
I mean one day I saw a man on the street who looked like him and I snapped photo because I thought that one day, maybe, I don’t know, maybe one day it would be useful.
BODY
The photo?
HEAD
The photo, yes.
BODY
Useful as in . . . evidence?
HEAD
Yea, maybe.
BODY
You do understand that the evidence is inadmissible?
HEAD
Inadmissible?
BODY
We can’t use it. It’s not the same man. It’s someone who, in your own words, is someone who looks like him.
(Silence)
HEAD
Can I have a cigarette?
BODY
There’s no smoking in here.
(Silence)
BODY exits. Returns with a yellow balloon. Words and numbers are written in black marker on the balloon.
BODY
We found this balloon. It’s yours, right?
(Silence)
BODY (Cont.)
Written on it is a phone number, address, and the message—
HEAD
Help Me. Yes, it’s mine.
BODY
You know that we’re here because of this balloon?
HEAD
No we’re not.
BODY
We’re not?
HEAD
No.
BODY
Then why are we here?
HEAD
(slightly maniacal titter)
We’re here because, where else would we be?
(Silence)
BODY
When he said to you, we can stop if you’d like, how did that make you feel?
HEAD
How did that make you feel?
BODY
I wasn’t there.
HEAD
Oh yea.
(beat)
It made me feel . . . I didn’t know what he was talking about.
BODY
Pretend that you did.
(Silence)
BODY
I said—
HEAD
I was fucking pissed, okay? That he said we could stop. We.
Fuzz and static and overlapping frequencies return. Clears up.
BODY
Because you weren’t part of it?
HEAD
Because I wasn’t part of it, right.
BODY
Because you were somewhere else.
HEAD
I was somewhere else, yes.
BODY
(to offscreen person)
Please make note of that . . . she was somewhere else.
Sound of typewriter keys clacking.
HEAD
But what I said to him was—Okay.
BODY
Okay meaning you didn’t want it to continue?
HEAD
Yes.
BODY
And so it stopped?
HEAD
It stopped. Yes. It had been in my life before and then it wasn’t in my life. Like it had never happened at all.
BODY
How did that make you feel?
(Silence)
BODY
(to offscreen person)
Please make note of her silence at . . . 6:47 into the tape.
HEAD
Please do not make note of my silence.
BODY
But you didn’t say anything.
HEAD
Fuck you. There, I said something.
(Silence)
BODY
Would you like your photo and balloon back?
HEAD
No. Keep ‘em.
(beat)
Is that it?
BODY
For now, yes.
Static and fuzz and overlapping frequencies. This time the shot dissolves into a blur which then clarifies into a close-up on a mannequin’s face.
The mannequin has no hair, and her head and neck are resting on a red pillow, with red sheets on the bed.
Lingering close-up as we see a tear stream down the corner of the mannequin’s eye.
1950s-style pop tune begins playing.
Posted in Prose, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Animal Crackers

Posted on November 25, 2018 by John Biscello
IMG958524
Sunny afternoon.
A town square.
In the middle of the town square a burlap sack covering someone, or something. A crowd gathered around the sack.
MAN #1
Do you know who he belonged to?
WOMAN #1
We don’t know that it’s a he.
MAYOR
We don’t know anything right now, so let us not speculate.
(pause)
Who found him. Her. For now let’s go with the masculine pronoun. Him.
WOMAN #1
We always go with the masculine pronoun.
Arguments ensue among the crowd.
MAYOR
People, people, please. “It.” Let’s go with “it” for now. Who found “it?”
FLOYD
I did, Mayor.
MAYOR
Just like this?
FLOYD
Exactly like this. I was making my morning rounds and . . . there it was.
MAYOR
This is the fourth one . . . like this. Every one of ‘em covered in this kind of sack.
FLOYD
Burlap.
MAYOR
What’s that?
FLOYD
The kind of sack, it’s burlap.
MAYOR
Burlap, yes, okay, thank you, Floyd. And I’m going to assume there’s a child under there…
FLOYD
I think that’s a reasonable assumption, what with the size of the sack and all.
MAN #1
What else could fit under there?
WOMAN #1
She might be a small grown-up, someone short, a grandma—
GRANDMA BARKER
Hey, I take offense to that—
WOMAN #1
Sorry, Miss Barker.
MAYOR
Okay, okay, let us for a minute assume that it is a child . . . has anyone’s child gone missing?
WOMAN #1
You mean, like literally?
MAYOR
Yes, I mean literally gone missing.
Crowd patter: nope, uh-uh, not mine, they’re still around, etc.
MR. BATES
You know, Mayor, there could be nothing under there.
MAYOR
Oh, there’s something under there alright.
MR. BATES
But how do you know? Maybe . . . maybe we should take a look.
Crowd looks at MR. BATES, as if what he’s suggested is absolutely crazy.
MAYOR
We don’t look, Mr. Bates. We never look.
MR. BATES
I know, but—
MAYOR
There’s nothing to see, you understand? We more or less know what happened.
MR. BATES
We do?
MAYOR
Well we might not know what happened, but we are fairly certain that under that sack is a child, a boy or a girl, and she or he is no longer among the living.
Silence.
MISS MARY breaks out crying.
MAYOR
What is it, Miss Mary?
MISS MARY
I think . . . I think that might be Jonah under there.
MISS MARY’S HUSBAND
Dear, it can’t be Jonah under there, he’s at home, we left him at home, we were just with him fifteen minutes ago, remember?
MISS MARY
I know, dear, but it still might be Jonah under there.
MR. BATES
Why don’t you look?
MAYOR
No one is to look under that sack.
(beat)
Miss Mary, if you’d like, I can send someone to fetch Jonah and bring him here and then you’ll know that it’s not him.
MISS MARY
Not him?
MAYOR
Not him under the sack.
MISS MARY
No, Mayor, I don’t want anyone to fetch Jonah. Leave him where he is. I just want to grieve my Jonah.
MISS MARY continues weeping.
WOMAN #1
That could be Wilhelm under the sack—
MAN #1
It might be Jessica—
WOMAN #3
Delaney, my poor sweet innocent Delaney.
People in the crowd begin crying for their “lost” loved ones.
MAYOR
Everybody, please, please, it is not your child under the sack. Do you understand what I’m saying? It is not your child under there, so please stop grieving.
(Silence)
Order and composure returns to the crowd.
FLOYD
Well, Mayor, what do we do now?
MAYOR
What we always do, Floyd.
FLOYD
Should I water it first?
MAYOR
We always water it first, Floyd.
FLOYD
Yes, sir. And then the concrete?
MAYOR
Then the concrete.
FLOYD
Okay.
MAYOR
People, as I said the other four times, and will probably keep on saying so long as these burlap sacks keep appearing—A tragedy of unspecified origins, with a victim of unknown identity, has come to us. We don’t know why, but what we do know, what we most assuredly do know is that we must continue to cherish the living, to cherish our loved ones, and to keep the faith that all is as it should be.
Everyone bows their heads.
MAYOR
Let us now return—
Suddenly, a CHILD in a plastic monkey mask that covers his/her entire face emerges from the crowd and makes its way toward the burlap sack.
MAYOR
Whose child is that?
MONKEYCHILD stops. Does a little hopsteppy happydance, with his arms overhead, hands swaying back and forth.
MAN #1
What’s he doing?
WOMAN #1
I don’t know.
MAN #1
Who does he belong to?
WOMAN #1
Or she.
The MONKEYCHILD stops dancing. Lies down on top of the sack, embracing whoever or whatever is beneath.
The crowd is in a state of shock, disbelief.
MAYOR
(to MONKEYCHILD)
Don’t touch it. Don’t . . . touch it.
MONKEYCHILD rises to standing. Takes another monkey-mask out of the satchel he/she’s carrying. Removes the burlap sack enough to reveal the face of whoever’s beneath. We, and the crowd, do not see the face.
MONKEYCHILD places the monkey-mask over the face of the corpse. We, and the crowd, now see the monkey-masked face of the corpse.
MONKEYCHILD tucks the burlap sack neatly around the corpse’s neck and shoulders, a ceremonial flourish.
MONKEYCHILD goes over to a nearby flowerbed, picks a white daisy, and places it on the chest of the corpse.
Then MONKEYCHILD skip-dances around the corpse, Ring-around-the-Rosey-style.
MONKEYCHILD stops skipping. Stares at the crowd. And stares.
FLOYD
Do you still want me to water it?
MAYOR
No, I don’t think . . . no.
MAN #1
Who does this child belong to?
WOMAN #1
Which one?
MAN #1
The monkey one.
WOMAN #1
They’re both monkeys now.
MAN #1
The living monkey one.
MISS MARY
Well it’s not Jonah, he’s at home.
WOMAN #1
Wilhelm doesn’t own a monkey-mask.
WOMAN #3
Delaney doesn’t dance like that.
FLOYD
So what you’re saying is, the child belongs to no one?
GRANDMA BARKER
It’s a wild thing is what it is.
MAN #1
Did you see the way it skipped? Like something out of a horror flick.
MISS MARY
And it’s staying there with the body, it’s just . . . staying there.
MISS MARY’S HUSBAND
And staring at us. Like it wants something.
MAYOR
People, as your Mayor, I’ll tell you how we’re going to handle this.
(stares at the MONKEYCHILD)
We’ll confront it. When the time is right. But for now, let us continue with our day as if everything is as it was.
Crowd begins to slowly disperse, still wary of the MONKEYCHILD.
Soon it is just the MONKEYCHILD and the corpse.
MONKEYCHILD rests his/her masked face against the masked face of the corpse.
MONKEYCHILD then skip-dances around the corpse three times.
The CORPSE reaches its hands up.
MONKEYCHILD takes the CORPSE’S hands and helps him/her to stand.
The two MONKEYCHILDREN hug, and then begin skipping in a circle as an electronic remix of “Animal Crackers” begins playing.
Camera slowly zooms out.
Fade to black.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

State of Address

Posted on November 25, 2018 by John Biscello
A salon. After hours. Dimly lit.
We see a red styling chair. Behind it are a counter and a wide mounted mirror. In the right upper-corner of the frame there are dismembered mannequins set against a wall.
The salon OWNER, a woman with fashionably short hair, enters the frame, sweeping the floor.
The sound of a door opening, faint sound of traffic in the background.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN enters. The stovepipe hat, the beard, the coat, the whole Lincoln bit.
LINCOLN nods to the OWNER, who gestures toward a chair.
LINCOLN takes off his hat and coat, sets them down on a table.
He proceeds to sit down in the chair which is set against a sink, facing backwards.
The OWNER turns on the water, then eases LINCOLN’S head back, his neck slotted in the cleft built into the sink.
The OWNER rinses LINCOLN’S hair, massages his scalp. She applies shampoo to LINCOLN’S hair, repeats the rinsing and massaging.
When she is done she towels off LINCOLN’S head and gestures toward the red styling chair.
LINCOLN goes to the chair and sits down. The owner covers LINCOLN with a smock.
The OWNER turns on the radio. Albinoni’s “Adagio in G Minor” is playing.
The OWNER gives LINCOLN a haircut. When the haircut is done, she prepares a hot towel and places it over LINCOLN’S face. She removes the towel and proceeds to give him a straight razor shave.
After the shave the OWNER gets down on her knees, between LINCOLN’S legs, wrangles his dick out from his zipper, and gives him a blowjob.
When she is done she rises to standing and wipes at her mouth.
The OWNER exits the frame.
Lingering shot of LINCOLN slumped in his chair, eyes closed, “Adagio” still playing.
LINCOLN gets up, puts on his coat and hat and exits the frame.
Lingering shot of the chair, the counter, the mirror, the mannequins.
Sound of a gunshot, a body thudding against the floor.
“Adagio” is suddenly washed out by static.
The OWNER re-enters the frame, turns the dial.
We hear Lincoln’s voice, in scratchy-time-weathered audio.
LINCOLN
A house divided against itself cannot stand.
(Dead air, popping and crackling with fuzz)
LINCOLN
(scratch-repeating, techno stutter-effect)
I-I-I-I-I
do not expect the house to fall, but I do expect it will cease to be divided.
(Electronic lounge beats kick in)
The OWNER goes offscreen, re-enters with a broom in hand, begins sweeping.
Electronic lounge plays as she sweeps up.
From the far-right corner, we see dark blood seeping into the frame.

Posted in Prose, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

All the Young Joans

Posted on November 25, 2018 by John Biscello
Afternoon in a park.
Wide shot of charred patches of grass.
Cut to a hand, in a fingerless glove, reaching down to touch the grass.
Cut to teenage girl, JOAN #1, kneeling, her fingers moving through the grass. Her friend, JOAN #2, standing next to her.
JOAN #1
This is where it happened.
JOAN #2
I know.
#1
This is exactly where it happened.
#2
Yea.
#1
Why don’t you touch it?
JOAN #2 kneels down and runs her fingers through the grass.
#2
It feels weird.
#1
Yea.
(beat)
Weird like how?
#2
Weird like . . . it feels lonely.
#1
(softly, meditatively)
Lonely.
JOAN #1 closes her eyes, smooths her gloved hand over the grass.
Both girls rise to standing.
#1
Wanna swing?
#2
Sure.
Cut to the girls swinging.
Alternating close-ups on whichever girl is speaking.
#1
You’re not having second thoughts are you?
#2
No.
(beat)
No.
(beat)
Are you?
#1
No.
(Silence)
#2
Do you know how many Arc-angels there were in the last burning?
#1
Fourteen.
#2
How many us will there be?
#1
Seventeen.
#2
That’s a lot.
#1
Yea.
Silence, as the girls continue swinging.
Cut to the girls on the see-saw.
#2
Are you scared?
#1
Yea, a little. Well more than a little. But I think of St. Joan. She was scared and brave at the same time.
#2
(flatly)
Yea.
#1
What’s the matter?
#2
Nothing it’s just . . . I was thinking that . . . well Joan didn’t have a choice. She didn’t want to be burned at the stake.
#1
But in a sense, she did. Her convictions brought her to that point, you know? It was her choice to fulfill a higher destiny. Like us.
#2
(smiling)
Yea, like us. All the young Joans.
#1
(smiling)
Yea. Arc-angels united.
The girls stop see-sawing, continue sitting.
#2
Remember this is where we first met? At Jillian’s seventh birthday party.
#1
I remember. And remember the pinata incident?
#2
Yea, when Billy went to whack the pinata with a bat and hit you instead and you were crying—
#1
And you came over to me and hugged me and we didn’t even know each other. You were so sweet.
#2
I was, wasn’t I?
(beat)
Whatever happened to Gillian?
#1
She moved away.
#2
That seems like such a long time ago.
#1
Different lifetime.
Cut to the girls sitting in the sandbox.
JOAN #1 drawing in the sand with a stick.
#2
Are you . . . are you going to leave a note of any kind?
#1
No. This isn’t about me. This is about us, all of us.
(Silence)
#1
Are you going to leave a note?
#2
Maybe. You know, my mother and father…
#1
Yea I know.
Cut to the girls sitting on a park bench.
#1
(reading the inscription carved into the bench)
Billy and Tiffany Forever.
(beat)
You think that’s our Billy? Pinata Billy?
#2
Could be.
Both girls laugh.
#1
Listen to this one
(reads another bench-message)
This bench saved my life—Steven.
#2
Wow. I wonder how the bench saved his life.
#1
Let’s find out.
(switches to news reporter voice, pretends to be wielding a microphone)
Bench, do you remember Steve? He was this man, or boy, possibly even a girl, who claims that you saved his or her life. If so, can you tell us how you did it?
(beat)
No comment? None at all? Well, okay, thank you for your time.
Laughter.
#2
Benches know how to keep secrets.
Staring out.
#1
Look at those clouds.
#2
Yea I know.
#1
(pointing)
That one looks like a wooly mammoth.
#2
It does. A snowy wooly mammoth.
#1
Yea.
(Silence)
#2
I’m going to miss this.
#1
Me too.
(Silence)
#2
I’m scared.
#1
About the burning?
#2
Yea.
#1
Me too. You know what helps me?
#2
What?
JOAN #1 reaches into her back-pocket and produces a postcard.
Close-up on a copy of the Joan of Arc painting by Jules Bastien-Lepage.
#1
I look at her. And I remember.
#2
Can I see it?
JOAN #1 hands JOAN #2 the postcard. JOAN #2 studies it.
#1
Why don’t you keep it?
#2
But don’t you need it?
#1
No, it’s fine, I have tons of other Joan images. That one’s for you.
#2
Thanks.
(Silence)
#2 (cont.)
How come there are no kids in the park today? It’s beautiful out.
#1
I know, it’s strange. No one’s here. Maybe it’s because of the burning.
#2
Yea, now this is like the haunted park.
Silence, cloud-staring.
#1
(pointing)
That one looks like a bird, some kind of giant bird.
#2
I don’t see it.
#1
See, the beak is right there, and there are the wings.
#2
Oh yea, yea, I see it now. A giant bird. Or an angel.
#1
Or an angel, yea.
The girls continue to talk about the clouds, their voices low, inaudible, as the camera zooms out.
Posted in Prose, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment