John Biscello

Hallway

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

This could be titled

John Biscello Doesn’t Live

Here Anymore,

could be titled

Romancing the Ghosts,

or perhaps no title at all,

just a flickering reminiscence

trapped in a photo

snapped

by a childhood friend

who swears

that he occasionally sees

the nine-year-old version of me,

or its spectral counterpart,

playing with his G.I. Joes

alone

in the dusty hallway.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged 1741, 62nd street, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, childhood, friend, ghosts, hallway, house, John Biscello, memory, photo, play, poem, the past | 1 Comment

Doll

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

She keeps strict vigil

over Childhood in action,

every fragrance

and nuance,

every lost tooth

and blown-out birthday candle,

every romp in the grass

and Goliath slain,

she keeps conscious watch,

so later, when the box

and the dark come to claim her

as a casualty of Time’s passage,

she will remember,

to the last detail,

the adoring little girl

that made her real.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged child, childhood, devotion, doll, girl, John Biscello, love, playmate, poem, Poetry, real, toy | Leave a comment

Follow Me

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

Upon returning,

the man claiming to be Jesus

knew the perfect place

to kickstart his new wave of miracles,

as the parishioners of social media

congregated into a mob and followed him

down a crooked alley

to a street often overlooked.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged alley, blind, blind corner, jesus, John Biscello, miracles, parable, parishioners, poem, social media, street | Leave a comment

Symmetry

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

It is the filigreed static,

and effluvient roar of the water nymphs

choral concert,

which numinously orders

the light

and stones

to conspire,

and function

as delegates of symmetry.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged filigree, flow, John Biscello, Light, music, nature, New Mexico, poem, Poetry, rio grande, river, roar, stones, symmetry, water nymphs | Leave a comment

Remainder

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

Sometimes,

the children who have gone underground,

the chance orphans who choose spelunk

or burrow or blackest pitch

out of necessity and survival instinct,

leave behind tangible remnants

of their former lives,

sacrificed to sights

and gods unseen

by morally prescribed vision

and commonest breach.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged beach, cave, children, dark, John Biscello, loss, poem, Poetry, rock, shoe, sneaker, survival, tunnel, underground | Leave a comment

Choose Your Own Suspense

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

Whether I had been waiting for him,

or he for me, I could no longer remember.

Or maybe he was a she, and I was a you,

gender and pronouns being so malleable

and always in flux.

Whoever, or whatever it was

on the other side of the door,

I, you, he, she, studied

the fugitive slant of light

spearing the floor,

and a memory knifed through,

just before . . . .

A. The door opened and _____________

B. The door stayed closed and the shadow _______________

C. The light grew brighter and brighter until _______________

D. _ awoke one morning to find that ______.

Posted in Poetry, Prose, Uncategorized | Tagged choose your own adventure, door, John Biscello, kafka, Light, mystery, noir, poem, shadow, story, suspense | Leave a comment

Not Nietzche

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

If you gaze

long enough

into a lighted window

at night,

eventually

the lighted window

goes dark.

(i.e., Common Sense for Uncommonly Complicated Philosophers

Who Hang out at Starbucks

and Read Immanuel Kant While Hoping

That the Nerdy-Cute Barista

Finally Finally

Pays Him Mind

Because According to Kant

“It is beyond a doubt

that all our knowledge begins with experience”

And He Longingly Longed For Experience

Beyond Text & Frappucinos.)

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged barista, beyond good and evil, coffee, dark, John Biscello, Kant, lighted window, love, Nietzche, passion, philosophy, Poetry, romance, starbucks, window | 10 Comments

Playground

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

In the end,

as in the beginning,

we shall find

that the whole cyclical shebanga

was a mischievous riot,

a fool’s paradise

of child’s play

upon fluorescent plasma,

or to parrot the enlightened pearls

of Mister Voltaire,

“God

is a comedian

playing to an audience

too afraid to laugh.”

(cue laugh track,

and canned applause.)

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged child's play, doll, enlightenment, fools, forest, God, hand, John Biscello, laughter, paradise, pearls, poem, Poetry, toys, voltaire | Leave a comment

Distance

Posted on March 2, 2018 by John Biscello

Fringing the stark shadow

of a lucid twig,

two fallen leaves court

from the distance

of metaphor.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged black and white, John Biscello, leaves, metaphor, nature, photo, poem, Poetry, shadow, sidewalk, twig | Leave a comment

Opaque

Posted on March 2, 2018 by John Biscello

Rebirthing,

within fathomless hues,

beyond the opaque rim,

and vanishing,

someone waits

to claim your life

anew.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged baptism, dark, hues, John Biscello, lake, moody, New Mexico, opaque, photo, poem, Poetry, rebirth, ritual, water | Leave a comment

This could be titled

John Biscello Doesn’t Live

Here Anymore,

could be titled

Romancing the Ghosts,

or perhaps no title at all,

just a flickering reminiscence

trapped in a photo

snapped

by a childhood friend

who swears

that he occasionally sees

the nine-year-old version of me,

or its spectral counterpart,

playing with his G.I. Joes

alone

in the dusty hallway.

She keeps strict vigil

over Childhood in action,

every fragrance

and nuance,

every lost tooth

and blown-out birthday candle,

every romp in the grass

and Goliath slain,

she keeps conscious watch,

so later, when the box

and the dark come to claim her

as a casualty of Time’s passage,

she will remember,

to the last detail,

the adoring little girl

that made her real.

Upon returning,

the man claiming to be Jesus

knew the perfect place

to kickstart his new wave of miracles,

as the parishioners of social media

congregated into a mob and followed him

down a crooked alley

to a street often overlooked.

It is the filigreed static,

and effluvient roar of the water nymphs

choral concert,

which numinously orders

the light

and stones

to conspire,

and function

as delegates of symmetry.

Sometimes,

the children who have gone underground,

the chance orphans who choose spelunk

or burrow or blackest pitch

out of necessity and survival instinct,

leave behind tangible remnants

of their former lives,

sacrificed to sights

and gods unseen

by morally prescribed vision

and commonest breach.

Whether I had been waiting for him,

or he for me, I could no longer remember.

Or maybe he was a she, and I was a you,

gender and pronouns being so malleable

and always in flux.

Whoever, or whatever it was

on the other side of the door,

I, you, he, she, studied

the fugitive slant of light

spearing the floor,

and a memory knifed through,

just before . . . .

A. The door opened and _____________

B. The door stayed closed and the shadow _______________

C. The light grew brighter and brighter until _______________

D. _________________ awoke one morning to find that ______________________.

If you gaze

long enough

into a lighted window

D. _ awoke one morning to find that ______.