First Time, Forever

(Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn.)
   What are we gonna do with ourselves Daniel?
   Like right now?
   Like ever. Are you gonna go to college?
   I don’t know, but I don’t think so.
   Why you’re smart?
   I hate school. You know what Mark Twain said?
   What?
   There’s nothing wrong with school, just don’t let it get in the way of your education.
   Ooooh, I like that. That’s a good one. Well whatever you do you’ve got your stories. You’re going to be a famous writer aren’t you?
   I don’t know.
   Well I do. And you’re going to be. Trust me. I know these things. I may not know what . . . what was that word again?
   What word?
   Petulant. I may not know what petulant means but I know you’re gonna be a famous writer. World famous. And I’ll say I knew you when. Remember how you used to put me in some of your stories? Do you still do that?
   Sometimes, yea.
   Good. Keep writing about me okay?
   Okay.
   Anything you want. Just include me in your stories. Don’t forget about me. Write whatever you want. Write about the time your crazy friend Anya came to the schoolyard at  three o’ clock on a Saturday with a bottle of stolen peach brandy and . . . and you and her got drunk together . . . and then . . . and then she kissed you.
   She kissed me?
   Which is exactly what Anya did.
   Her head rose from my shoulder and her mouth pushed into mine. Her tongue snaked past my lips and initiated my tongue. Wagging, jostling, probing, pinning, curling. A sloppy and frenetic tango, a fevered joust.
   A part of me stood outside myself, watching, recording, narrating.
   You are now kissing Anya and Anya is kissing you. This has never happened before. It is happening now. Notice the slitted dance of her tongue. Notice the peach-heat of her breath in yours. The bulging rhythm of her jaw. Her hand on your cheek. The wet, clicking unity of your mouths. Notice these things. If you pay strict enough attention, if you crystallize with rapt intent, you will always have this moment. It will be yours forever. It will deepen over time. It will grow in value, depth, complexity. You will be able to live and die inside of it repeatedly, endlessly.
   Pay good, strict attention.
   You are now kissing Anya for the first time, always.
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Super Hero

(Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn.)
   I was six when I found out I’d never become a superhero.
   We were in the kitchen. Me, my mother, and father. My father’s hand was around my mother’s throat. He had a wild, bloodshot, not-there look in his eyes, an inflamed vacancy. He reminded me of a wolf about to savage its prey.
   My mother’s eyes were big with fear. She cried out a number of times—Daniel, Daniel, he’s going to kill me. Daniel, Daniel.
   My name became many things in that moment. An accusation, a weakness, an empty husk, a recrimination, a point of departure.
   She kept calling out my name, it felt like a hundred times, but in reality it was probably around six or seven. Things not only look bigger when you are small, they also sound bigger. All the shouting and screaming and accusations and vitriol that filled my house felt like acoustical storms to my small pink ears. Violence was the melody upon which all other riffs were improvised.
   So yea, my name, repeated—Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. But no one was home. Something vital in me had fled, had flown away to another part of the house, or out the window. It wasn’t there and without it I couldn’t move.
   Frozen, I stared at my father.
   He struck me as inhuman, like some lunatic in a horror film, like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. His meaty hand was clutched around my mother’s thin neck (she always had a dancer’s neck) and I knew that he could break it if he wanted to, that the possibility of him breaking it existed as a very real possibility in that moment.
   What had preceded my father’s hand around my mother’s throat was my mother’s caustic verbal attack (pertaining, as usual, to drinking, drugging and gambling), which had then escalated into my mother throwing things, at first in the proximity of my father and then directly at him.
   He deflected objects and ducked. It was warfare with the quality of slapstick.
   My mother remained the aggressor until just after she took a swipe at his face and caught his cheek with her nails. My father touched his fingers to the fresh scratch-marks, as if needing to tactilely confirm what had happened, and then he lost it, charging at my mother like a bull and backing her into the wall, where she was now pinned, hand around her throat, calling out my name. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel.
   Each time I heard it there was less of me there. My name was the hated enemy that was driving me out of myself.
   Yet I had to do something to help my mother, to save her, I was her only hope, and despite my deep freeze I managed to speak—Da.
   This single utterance broke his trance. He still had the wild look in his eyes (I know because he turned it on me) and he still had his hand around my mother’s throat, but the murderous intensity had slackened, just enough.
   He released my mother and stormed out the front door.
   Piece a shit, my mother screamed as the door slammed.
   Screams and slamming doors. This was the vocabulary of the house.
   My mother slid soundlessly against the wall and crumpled to the tiles.
   She cried hot, loud tears.
   I looked at her and didn’t move.
   I felt bad for her. And hated her.
   The hatred burned deep in my chest and lungs and I wasn’t sure of its source then, but now I understand that I hated her for forcing me to participate in their war, for involving me in her mess, for trying to enlist me as her savior, but mostly I hated her for showing me that I would never ever become a superhero.
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In Love and War

(Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn.)
   I dumped all my G.I. Joes out of the shopping bag and onto the pavement of the driveway. I separated the good guys from the bad guys, and then arranged them in specific positions. Before initiating a battle, or an “episode,” as I called them, I would survey the figures, making sure that all weapons were in place, no good guys were mixed with bad guys, no one was missing.
   As I inspected my tableaux, a shadow came over my miniature world.
   I looked up.
   It was Anya.
   Her hair was in pigtails and she was eating a bright red icicle. A red stain was ringed around her mouth.
   Whaddya doing, she asked.
   Playing with my men. I had to squint when looking at her because of the glare of the sun.
   Can I play? Her melting icicle dripped red dots onto the pavement, like it was bleeding.
   I don’t know—
   Come on let’s play war together, she urged.
   She popped a squat and I saw that her icicle was now leaking red onto her blue skirt.
   You’re getting ice all over your skirt, I pointed.
   Anya looked down and giggled.
   So, she shrugged. You want an ice? I have more in the house. I can go and get one for you. There’s cherry, that’s the one I’m eating, and there’s strawberry and lemon.
   No thanks. Maybe later.
   Okay. So can I play war with you?
   Girls don’t play war.
   Anya flung her head back and laughed big.
   What’s so funny?
   You, she pointed at me with her icicle. Girls do play war. I play war with my stuffed animals and Barbies and Care Bears.
   I tried to imagine Care Bears engaged in a war. It didn’t seem possible.
   Those things are not the same as G.I. Joes.
   Why do you line them up like that?
   It’s how I always start. And I don’t call it playing war. It’s called an episode.
   An episode?
   Yea, like you know how they have different T.V. episodes. I have different episodes with my men.
   Anya pointed to Scarlet, my only female G.I. Joe.
   That one’s a girl!
   Yea, so?
   You said you have episodes with your men. But she’s a girl. And I’m a girl too. So I can have episodes with you.
   Anya’s logic baffled and frustrated me.
   Scarlet’s the only girl and that’s because she’s Duke’s girlfriend—
   Which one is Duke?
   I pointed to the blonde-haired man holding a machine gun.
   So Duke and Scarlet kiss?
   Anya giggled and then plugged her mouth against the base of her icicle to stop the dripping. She made a sucking noise that reminded me of the tube they put in your mouth at the dentist.
   They don’t kiss. It’s not like that in my episodes.
   No one could kiss that one anyway, Anya pointed at Cobra Commander. He’s got no face, just a mask with no eyes and no mouth or anything.
   He’s Cobra Commander and no one would want to kiss him anyway because he’s a bad guy and he wouldn’t want to kiss anyone because he’s into doing bad things like blowing stuff up and kidnapping people.
   Anya nodded, a serious look in her eyes. She seemed genuinely interested in what I was saying.
   She pointed at several other figures and asked me their names, and what they did.
   I gave her the lowdown on each one. When she switched from squatting to sitting cross-legged, I caught a flash of her yellow panties.
   Anya finished her icicle and tossed the stick into the garbage-can. She slapped her hand against the lid and said—This is where they found me, ya know.
   I know, I said. Who told you?
   Boris and Vera.
   Anya shrugged when saying that, as if it were no big deal.
   Anya was seven. I wondered how old she was when they told her.
   She sat down again, crossing her legs. No panty-flashing this time.
   So, she smiled, can I play with you?
   Okay, I said, but you gotta follow the rules. Okay?
   Okay, she nodded, her pigtails bopping.
   I laid out my rules, the three most important ones being:
  1. Anya and I could play next to each other but not with each other. Our episodes had to stay separate.
  2. An episode had to be completed, beginning to end.
  3. If a character died during an episode they were dead forever and couldn’t be used anymore.
   Anya agreed to my rules but asked—So if Snake-Eyes is killed during my episode he has to stay dead today and in the future too?
   Yes.
   You can’t ever play with him again?
   No, not if he’s dead. Otherwise it would be fake. In real life when people die they don’t come back.
   What about ghosts?
   I don’t have ghosts in my episodes. Not in the G.I. Joe World.
   What do you do with the dead figures?
   I used to bury them in the yard or burn them. But now I’ve been doing something different. I tie string around them and fling them into that tree.
   I pointed at the big elm just in front of and to the right of the driveway.
   Anya stared at the tree.
   How many are up there?
   Three. No, four.
   How many have died?
   Since I started collecting G.I. Joes?
   Yea.
   I thought about it.
   Maybe like a dozen.
   Do you miss them after you get rid of them?
   A little bit. But there’s nothing I can do about it. When they’re dead they’re dead. Okay, why don’t you pick out the ones you want to use in your episode.
   Anya picked six, including Snake-Eyes. I told her she couldn’t have Snake-Eyes because he always had to be in my episodes. She picked Blow-Torch instead.
   You don’t want Scarlet?
   No, she said, you need her to kiss Duke.
   Enough with the kissing, I told Anya, but couldn’t hide my smile. I thought of my friend, Charlie, who had a crush on Scarlet because of her red hair.
   I separated my figures from Anya’s and we started playing.
   I made lots of noise and sound effects and spoke my dialogue aloud. Anya started off quietly but then started doing the same.
   After about five minutes Anya interrupted my episode—Daniel?
   Anya we don’t talk to each other during our episodes.
   I know but I have an important question.
   What?
   I think this one here, what’s his name again—
   Storm Shadow—
   Yea I think Storm Shadow is about to get killed but I wanna know if he gets killed during my episode does that mean you can’t play with him again? Is he dead for me and for you?
   I hadn’t thought about that. I suddenly got worried that not only would Anya kill off Storm Shadow, one of my favorites, but also the other five characters she was playing with. She would wipe them all out and I’d lose six figures in one battle. I clarified the rule.
   No if you kill them, I explained, you can’t play with them anymore. Today, or if we ever play together again, they’d still be dead to you. But I can play with them because they didn’t die in my world.
   Okay, Anya responded cheerily, and went back to making noises and sound effects.
   In both of our episodes, no one died that day.
   Three weeks later when Flint was killed by Destro during one of my episodes, Anya asked me if she could be the one to fling his body into the tree.
   Sure, I said.
   She tied a string around Flint’s neck and flung him toward the graveyard of leaves.
   It took six tries before the figure finally caught on a branch and stayed there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Bough

Thick blossoms of snow
caking the comb-teeth of pines–
To rivet, chastely, sublime.
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Daniel and Anya

(Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn.)
   Anya melts onto her back.
   Lie down with me okay?
   I lie down.
   Our sides are touching, barely, but enough.
   You can’t see many stars tonight, Anya says.
   Too hazy.
   Yea.
   Anya points out an airplane, a flashing blip cruising across the night-sky—There goes a star.
   Then Anya giggles and says—Remember?
   Of course I remember, I say. Remember that I remember everything? It’s forgetting that I have trouble with.
   Oh yea I forgot, Anya giggles some more. Maybe that’s why you drink.
   Maybe.
   When we were kids Anya would point out airplanes and say that some of them were not airplanes at all but stars that couldn’t stay put, stars that had to keep moving.
   I’m gonna miss you when you move to L.A., ya know? What am I gonna do without my Daniel?
   Before I can respond, Anya starts singing Elton John’s “Daniel,” something else she used to do when we were younger.
   Daniel is traveling tonight on a plane
   I can see the red-tail lights leaving for Spain
   Oh and I can see Daniel waving goodbye
   Lord it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes
   Anya takes my hand and holds it. I can feel the insistence of her nails scratching into my palms. I can also feel bits of my heart rising in manic flutters toward my throat.
   I see a second plane, or migrant star, cruising across the night-sky, not too far behind the first one.
   I raise myself to its arc, and become a bodiless spectator, looking down at Anya and me lying in the grass in center field, hand in hand, our sides touching.
   Time leaves us alone for a little while.

 

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Grasp

Dawn’s broken promise,
an arterial rupturing of light
bleeding fevered gold
through drawn, dusty blinds,
morning, slow to rise,
small hands
reach out
and cannot grasp
forever.
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Raking Reviews

Dear Blogging-Community-at-Large:
My second novel, Raking the Dust, will be re-released by Unsolicited Press on April 3rd (as part of a build-up toward the release of my new novel, Nocturne Variations, in November). I am offering a limited number of free digital copies of RTD, in exchange for honest reviews on Amazon, Goodreads, blogs, etc., to be posted after the April 3rd release date. If you are interested in receiving a copy (PDF), please shoot me an email (johnbiscello@gmail.com). Here’s a little bit about the book:
In this rogue’s tale, full of sound, fury, and erotic surrealism, we meet Alex Fillameno, a writer who has traded in the machine-grind of New York for a bare bones existence in the high desert town of Taos, New Mexico. Recently divorced and jobless, Fillameno has become a regular at The End of the Road, the bar where he first encounters the alluring and enigmatic D.J., a singer and musician. Drawn to her mutable sense of reality, the two begin a romance that starts off relatively normal. When D.J. initiates Alex into the realm of sexual transfiguration, however, their lives turn inside-out, and what follows is an anti-hero’s journey into a nesting doll world of masks and fragments, multiples and parallels, time-locks and trauma; a world in which reality is celluloid and what you see is never what you get.
Thanks, and stay creatively lubed, lighted and inflamed, y’all.
Yours, J.B.

herculanum straight

 

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First Steps

It is not about holding her perfect,
just so, in a prescribed manner,
but rather, can you slowpour your breath
into one another’s hips
and clefts, while swaying?
It is the mutual pressing
of scars together, a controlled
friction that teaches your hidden
wounds to sing, raising
the pitch of tenderpink
to soprano, exploding shells
of outworn scabs
until the cadence is one of
melting. How to begin?
Take her hand,
lock your gaze with hers,
and simply ask: May I have this dance?
Music optional.
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Burn While Reading

Touch,
how her body
becomes a pulsing
slate of Braille,
your fingers, unfinished,
running on
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Liason

Adore,
the charmed offspring
of Love’s prickly
liason with Innocence
before it ripens
and falls. 
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