John Biscello
Author, poet, playwright
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Bone Dry
Posted on
March 22, 2018
by
John Biscello
Those crisp autumn nights,
alone, with miles and miles of
thoughts worn to the bone.
(Painting by Edward Hopper)
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Red, Black
Posted on
March 22, 2018
by
John Biscello
To paint a blood-sport,
matador, faring no bull–
dark, in need of stars.
(Artwork by Mark Rothko)
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Louise to the nth degree
Posted on
March 22, 2018
by
John Biscello
Remember, love, there’s
more of me where I came from–
Frames cannot hold us.
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Arson
Posted on
March 22, 2018
by
John Biscello
Committing arson,
five-alarm siren on screen–
Louise Brooks, how you burned.
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Chaplin, Keaton
Posted on
March 22, 2018
by
John Biscello
Men, who took the fall,
to keep the world in stitches–
Clowning achievement.
(Film still from
Limelight
, the only film in which Chaplin and Keaton appeared together).
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Jean Rhys at Twilight
Posted on
March 21, 2018
by
John Biscello
Nutrition fact:
Did you know
that windows
like to eat writers
who diet on silence
and dust-motes,
they swallow the writers
whole, or in fragments,
devouring them slowly,
ever so slowly,
until all that remains
is a ghost,
where a writer once lived,
at a distance,
from the alleged world
outside their window.
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Jackson Pollock
Posted on
March 21, 2018
by
John Biscello
Ballet in a storm,
one man’s kinetic forecast–
You will know my name.
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Scissors
Posted on
March 21, 2018
by
John Biscello
Hard to move forward,
she thought, when bound to what’s gone–
She bought new scissors.
(Artwork by Izumi Yokoyama)
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Scent
Posted on
March 21, 2018
by
John Biscello
Suspicion assails,
Why did he give this to me?
The scent of a trail.
(Artwork by Paul Klee)
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Night Moves
Posted on
March 21, 2018
by
John Biscello
Tree’s night-perm like fog,
stars pining to get lost there–
Long distance courtship.
(Artwork by Georgia O’ Keefe)
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