slow
beating
ache
keeping
time
to breaking
lore
and softcore
myth
rising
to tease
and strip
heaven’s knee
of its skin
my god
yes
spit
and blood
and light
and yes
remixed
to teach
you
and me
what angels
be like
when fucking.
Above all else,
(she told me,
her smile a glowing sickle)
dignity and grace,
for each and every soul
on this planet,
no one above,
no one below,
and everything
I mean everything
you truly need to know
you’ve already learned
a thousand times over
in the lighted prehistory
of your starstuff origins,
I’m talking slowbaked pat-a-cake
wisdom
in the throes
of eternal kindergarten,
so remember, kid,
when get things complicated,
muddy, kinked, or strained,
remember that
dignity and grace,
above all else,
are Love’s sacrosanct
twin flames,
and their union
the divine proof
and memory
of who we are
beyond mortal register
and forgotten claims.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
|
Tagged dignity, eternal, grace, John Biscello, love, poem, soul, spirit, wisdom, wise woman
|
It’s strange
how you can miss someone
you’ve never met
as if the ache
bears a secret history
exclusive
to its own sense
of mystery
and rivet.
While the beauty
and magmic intensity
of Vesuvius
is something to behold
it pales
in comparison
to Pele’s
fire-lipped
swallowing
of entire islands
leaving a blanket
of hot ash
on a roiling sea
where men
sacrifice bleeding hearts
to the worship
and violent spread
of her legend
uncensored.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
|
Tagged fire, John Biscello, lava, love, nature, passion, pele, poem, romance, vesuvius
|
I fall in love
too easy
with phantoms and projections,
spectral imprints
that pool twilight
in their arms
for a living.
Where people are not,
I find myself digging
and searching,
clawing profusely
at beautiful stones
until my nails are broken
and my fingerprints bloodied
into a glyphic makeover.
I court absences,
their staggering volume
a powerful gulfstream
by which every paper boat
and child’s dream
I cast
cuts through channels
and tributaries
en route to the sea’s
brute promise of amnesia.
I forget where I am,
who I was,
and that, at heart,
I am simply
the long-lost lover
of ancient print
in a storybook
whose tales are
as old
as they are
unwritten.
Between
the call of bodies,
testing the ream
of vocabulary’s limits,
words exact
their talent
for slow burn,
and quicken
to replenish.
There are no
promissory notes
in life,
there are
fugitive scraps
upon which we can opt
to scribble our heart’s mind,
and most tender sublime,
tatters
registered to light’s
lilting slant,
granting us grace
from unexpected angles.
The young boy asked me,
What is it exactly
that grows in
the cavehunger depths
and wilds of the heart?
No one knows,
dear boy,
it is the most hidden
and magnificent of countries,
all I can say
is that you should thoroughly
explore your own,
and leave trails
so others can find you.
My heart,
as a fool
forever in love
with love’s mercurial climate,
does not beg for static coverage,
or seasons to stop voicing
their natural patterns,
yet my heart,
childlike
in its prehistory,
sometimes
strives to alchemize the weather,
to invent a rainstorm,
just to feel water
weeping against its
paperthin walls.
Learn
to stand still,
inviolably still,
in the vortex of fire,
and bear true witness;
every bloom
holds within its tenor
the epitaph of it ashes,
every loss
tenders the wick for epiphany,
learn
to remain softly
yet firmly
still in the center
of fire’s fiercest season,
and bear clear witness,
through the heart’s holy break
into smoldering wake
and exception.
