John Biscello

God’s Lectern

Posted on October 21, 2016 by John Biscello

Epic announcement

forthcoming

about

commandments to be

scratched onto stone tablets

like Eden acid

jazz

for badland sinners

in nuclear raincoats

(stream: Wholly Moses the remix

on Godify.)

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged art, badlands, bisti badlands, desert, dunes, farmington, God, inspiration, John Biscello, moses | Leave a comment

Breaking Badlands

Posted on October 21, 2016 by John Biscello

In the beginning,

there were no words.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged badlands, bisti badlands, clouds, desert, farmington, inspiration, John Biscello, New Mexico, rocks, stones | Leave a comment

Hale

Posted on October 20, 2016 by John Biscello

To sharpen one’s teeth
against solvent pages
and grated silence
is the bite in the air
the old poets crowed
about, and the wind
saliently scales,
as if reverse
were a condition
and not Memory
fasting into childhood’s
hale.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged childhood, hale, ink, John Biscello, Literary, pen, Poetry, poets, soul, writing | Leave a comment

Mantra

Posted on October 20, 2016 by John Biscello

Hurry Slowly
was the tictoc mantra
of the one-armed photographer,
Josef Sudek, who praised
and made lasting secret love
to his Muse and ghost-veiled
bride, Prague,
vowing his fugitive eye
to her
and her alone.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged ghost, John Biscello, josef sudek, mood, photography, Poetry, prague, streetlamp | Leave a comment

Yes

Posted on October 19, 2016 by John Biscello

It is those,
in writing,
who quietly
almost sublimely
say fuck you
& yes
while trafficking,
with fierce row,
in silence
whom I most admire.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged amen, John Biscello, Literary, Poetry, writers, writing, yes | Leave a comment

Where is He?

Posted on October 17, 2016 by John Biscello

On the day I landed
on Asteroid B-9
and wandered around
for a short eternity without
a sighting, I asked the Silence
if it had said seen the Little Prince
to which the Silence responded
not at all.
The Little Prince’s whereabouts remain a mystery.
I am still wandering.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged asteroid, badlands, bisti badlands, desert, John Biscello, Literary, little prince, Poetry, wandering | Leave a comment

Spell

Posted on October 17, 2016 by John Biscello

On the day
I was turned to stone
all mirrors were instantly
abolished and silence
became that gilded golden thing
I had heard so much about
and the stillness of time
slowed to a moist chafing
pardon
where I was excused
from the unbearable lightness
of being a human
minding gravity.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Map

Posted on October 17, 2016 by John Biscello

Mapping
the bluest eye
through a cave-dwelling
perspective
alighted.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged badlands, bisti badlands, cave, dwelling, John Biscello, Light, map, Poetry | Leave a comment

Kindle

Posted on October 17, 2016 by John Biscello

Anatomy

of an Ab-Ex

blueprint for anarchic

matter, or, how the

viral network of

Jackson Pollock’s

warlock nerves

& bones

masquerade as kindling

for future paintings

and tomes.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged Abstract Expressionism, badlands, bisti badlands, desert, Jackson Pollock, John Biscello, kindle, photo | Leave a comment

Shudder

Posted on October 16, 2016 by John Biscello

Bracing the slide
angle, where powerlessness
begets a rim, a fingerhold
at best. We play on,
ordering encrypted light
on dark notes, braving blights
and chronic fade,
we bless, jointly,
by shudder and pale,
with gospel caulking
the sudden seams.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged brave, dark, fade, gospel, inspiration, John Biscello, Light, Literary, mortality, Poetry, prayer | Leave a comment

John Biscello

God’s Lectern

Breaking Badlands

In the beginning,

there were no words.

Hale

To sharpen one’s teeth
against solvent pages
and grated silence
is the bite in the air
the old poets crowed
about, and the wind
saliently scales,
as if reverse
were a condition
and not Memory
fasting into childhood’s
hale.

Mantra

Hurry Slowly
was the tictoc mantra
of the one-armed photographer,
Josef Sudek, who praised
and made lasting secret love
to his Muse and ghost-veiled
bride, Prague,
vowing his fugitive eye
to her
and her alone.

Yes

It is those,
in writing,
who quietly
almost sublimely
say fuck you
& yes
while trafficking,
with fierce row,
in silence
whom I most admire.

Where is He?

On the day I landed
on Asteroid B-9
and wandered around
for a short eternity without
a sighting, I asked the Silence
if it had said seen the Little Prince
to which the Silence responded
not at all.
The Little Prince’s whereabouts remain a mystery.
I am still wandering.

Spell

On the day
I was turned to stone
all mirrors were instantly
abolished and silence
became that gilded golden thing
I had heard so much about
and the stillness of time
slowed to a moist chafing
pardon
where I was excused
from the unbearable lightness
of being a human
minding gravity.

Map

Mapping
the bluest eye
through a cave-dwelling
perspective
alighted.

Kindle

Shudder

Bracing the slide
angle, where powerlessness
begets a rim, a fingerhold
at best. We play on,
ordering encrypted light
on dark notes, braving blights
and chronic fade,
we bless, jointly,
by shudder and pale,
with gospel caulking
the sudden seams.

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In the beginning,

there were no words.

To sharpen one’s teeth against solvent pages and grated silence is the bite in the air the old poets crowed about, and the wind saliently scales, as if reverse were a condition and not Memory fasting into childhood’s hale.

Hurry Slowly was the tictoc mantra of the one-armed photographer, Josef Sudek, who praised and made lasting secret love to his Muse and ghost-veiled bride, Prague, vowing his fugitive eye to her and her alone.

It is those, in writing, who quietly almost sublimely say fuck you & yes while trafficking, with fierce row, in silence whom I most admire.

On the day I landed on Asteroid B-9 and wandered around for a short eternity without a sighting, I asked the Silence if it had said seen the Little Prince to which the Silence responded not at all. The Little Prince’s whereabouts remain a mystery. I am still wandering.

On the day I was turned to stone all mirrors were instantly abolished and silence became that gilded golden thing I had heard so much about and the stillness of time slowed to a moist chafing pardon where I was excused from the unbearable lightness of being a human minding gravity.

Mapping the bluest eye through a cave-dwelling perspective alighted.

Bracing the slide angle, where powerlessness begets a rim, a fingerhold at best. We play on, ordering encrypted light on dark notes, braving blights and chronic fade, we bless, jointly, by shudder and pale, with gospel caulking the sudden seams.

Archives

Meta

Categories

To sharpen one’s teeth
against solvent pages
and grated silence
is the bite in the air
the old poets crowed
about, and the wind
saliently scales,
as if reverse
were a condition
and not Memory
fasting into childhood’s
hale.

Hurry Slowly
was the tictoc mantra
of the one-armed photographer,
Josef Sudek, who praised
and made lasting secret love
to his Muse and ghost-veiled
bride, Prague,
vowing his fugitive eye
to her
and her alone.

It is those,
in writing,
who quietly
almost sublimely
say fuck you
& yes
while trafficking,
with fierce row,
in silence
whom I most admire.

On the day I landed
on Asteroid B-9
and wandered around
for a short eternity without
a sighting, I asked the Silence
if it had said seen the Little Prince
to which the Silence responded
not at all.
The Little Prince’s whereabouts remain a mystery.
I am still wandering.

On the day
I was turned to stone
all mirrors were instantly
abolished and silence
became that gilded golden thing
I had heard so much about
and the stillness of time
slowed to a moist chafing
pardon
where I was excused
from the unbearable lightness
of being a human
minding gravity.

Mapping
the bluest eye
through a cave-dwelling
perspective
alighted.

Bracing the slide
angle, where powerlessness
begets a rim, a fingerhold
at best. We play on,
ordering encrypted light
on dark notes, braving blights
and chronic fade,
we bless, jointly,
by shudder and pale,
with gospel caulking
the sudden seams.