Pagan

Between blades and pines,
she lay still, spreading forest
to stars that filled her.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Satyr

I found him, wanting,
satyr’s swell of thorny play–
fondling fresh, green grass.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Claim

Some kind of tender,
hard to find its truest name–
words fail to claim touch.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Henry Miller

henrymiller1

Some men rattle their chains and wonder, some sing them.
Then there are others who spraypaint their chains rainbow siege
and dance a jig like a peacock on fire, and when someone asks
Isn’t it hard to dance around with those chains weighing you down,
the man laughs heartily and responds—What chains, my dear lad,
these are feathers. Listen to the way they jangle and clink when I dance,
have you ever heard feathers that sound like that? Miraculous and unusual, yes?
You, Henry Miller, were one of those men.
You turned wrought-iron links, Brooklyn-made, into loafer’s foam,
into dreamfaring plumage, unabashed in its frisson and vainglory,
smeared bottom’s up in in deep semen envy, angels spit, and stolen honey.
Vagabondage was your claim, but not your master.
Though you did have many teachers—bilious clowns, crowded streets,
torn trousers, children’s capered faces, gateless barbarians,
your mother’s frigid ruler (and how you learned the only thing
worth measuring was love, that which belonged to the immeasurable).
A lusty little scamp at heart, eyes unpopping buttons
and sailing seas of skirts in parks, you were literature’s answer to Charlie Chaplin,
with an unzipped mouth and cracked tower of seismic songs to yawp,
the world needed a Henry Miller, because you said so,
and in cement that remained eternally wet, you signed your name
and sang, Whitmanesque, of yourself, again and again and again,
an explodingly insistent echo,
and the sincerest of forgeries,
because, for those dwelling between lines,
a signature verifying an identity—
I am he, he is me, he is he, I am I, etc,
never does true justice
to the multitudinous at work
in the playing of one’s self as instrument
upon which God’s deepwelling nothingness
meets and mates with one’s youthingness,
and from there, bang.
Just bang and wow and let’s make radical inscrutable love,
music, art, whatever.
You, “Henry Miller,” wink-wink,
gave us your pulsing timepiece of whatever,
and you, Henry Miller, as my Brooklyn soul-chum and compatriot,
separated by age but not spirit,
granted me amnesty
and helped me to unlock my own
bang, wow, and whatever
resounding yes
whatever
yes
yes.
Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 23 Comments

Fete

Coercion,
tendered through soft vowels,
falling,
fingers
like mouths,
hold air,
on the feted cusp.
Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Sway

To sway, with corset
no more to bind, hips
parlaying grace, to rivet
greening desire.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

N.

Sssshhh, gently now, gently,
Love, the slippered guest,
the tender trespasser,
enters the house of wet leaves,
softly, finger pressed to asking lips,
no more questions, just this:
the sound of rain, pealing,
to bless storied thirst.

 

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Daisies

To have, to have not,
in the end, it’s all the same–
thrill to wet daisies.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Arc

Here, learning to craft,
birth to arc, John Biscello–
my life’s truest art.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

The Passion of Joan of Arc

passion of joan II

(Review of The Passion of Joan of Arc, the silent film classic, which is celebrating its 90th anniversary.)
Celebrating its 90th anniversary, Dreyer’s film remains starkly modern in its composition and complexion, fixed in an otherworldly and hallucinogenic present. Jean Cocteau stated that the film played like “an historical document from an era in which cinema didn’t exist.”
Based on the actual transcripts from Joan of Arc’s trial, Dreyer compressed twenty-nine interrogations over eighteen months into a single scene. A jigsaw asymmetry of shots and angles, cinematically akin to the German Expressionism of the period, as well as a jarring blitzkrieg of close-ups, gives the film the feel of a prolonged gothic nightmare, with Joan’s inquisitors a cadre of incubi in vestments and robes. Rapacious intimacy is achieved through enclosure (antecedent to Lars von Trier’s claustrophobic tour de force, Dogville), and this stringency is made even more compelling by the fact that the entire set was a complex rendition of medieval architecture, yet only factors in to the film as more of a peripheral sketch, or skeletal imprint. It is the faces, framed in a rapidity of cuts and interpolations, which play out as visual arias in an operatic siege, with Falconetti’s face starring in all its amorphic genius. Stunningly mercurial in its subtle transitions, the vocabulary of the soul, unfettered, can be read in Falconetti’s expressions. From glazed vacancy, that faraway within, implying Joan’s beatific rapture, to the blinkless intensity of her moonshot eyes, to the slow and lugubrious movements of her head, Falconetti executes a poetic clinic on what can be conveyed from the neck-up. In one of the film’s most touching scenes, when an inquisitor asks Joan, “Who taught you the Our Father,” a tear glistens like a lighted scar along Joan’s cheek, as she responds, “My mother.” Yes, Joan may be the world’s most famous cross-dressing heretic turned saint, and the daughter of God, but she was also her mother’s child, and a vulnerable teenage girl caught between the crosshairs of visionary living and fragile wants. These nuances are indelibly captured by Falconetti’s performance, and Dreyer’s direction.
To read the full review click here.
Posted in Press, Prose, Publications, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments