John Biscello

   A man in a bulky white parka is running across a snowy landscape.

   The hood pulled over his head is lined with seal-gray fur.

   He is wearing plastic goggles that are caked in frost.

   He is running and running across, A) the Arctic tundra, B) a distant moon, C) a glacial purgatory, D) all and none of the above.

   The man, tromping through snow and ice in rubber boots, is flying a fire-orange kite.

   You can hear the man breathing heavily; audio magnified to a point of near-distortion.

   You can see the clouds of smoke emitted from his mouth.

   Icy winds grip and seize the plastic body of the kite,

            producing a manic ruffling.

   The ruffling of the kite like a thousand plastic fingers typing on lots of typewriters all at once, a textural riot.

   The icy winds like the low undigested rumbles of thunder,

            like ghost trains.

   And then there’s the man’s heavy breathing, completing the polar symphony.

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