John Biscello

Itchy navels, persecutions, manias, projections, snot-rimmed abysses, it’s been a mixed bag of plenty and none, and here I sit with the day’s teeth growing long and chopping down with razor-edged intensity … the stringent air of day after days passing … I, like the others, unspecified yet very much there, so it’s fair to say that we, we are passengers on this creaking wooden behemoth of a ship (some have called us the Ship of Fools, some have called the ship by different names—Titanic, Lusitania, Andrea Doria), I pass the days talking to myself while imagining the others listening, the process is vintage and varied, sometimes I diddle myself, sometimes I crib footnotes from old texts, and there’s always the fondling, fondling being one of the choicest diversions on this voyage, where I am going, where we are going, the ship of fools, the Titanic, the Lusitania, the Andrea Doria, I gulp depleted air from ingoing sky without ever looking up.