Dust Bunny

Posted on June 25, 2016 by John Biscello
IMG_3160
“I went to the kitchen and fixed myself another drink. Then I went over to the door leading out to the deck and looked through its glass window. The sky, mottled and ominous, looked like it was on the verge of pouring ravens. The womb-gods are cooperating, I thought.
   I returned to the living room, to my standing and staring spot. D.J. hadn’t moved a muscle. Serenity and seduction, perfectly ordered.
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Interview on The Last Word

Posted on June 22, 2016 by John Biscello

The Little People-33

Podcast of my interview on The Last Word. Listen here.
Show description: John Biscello, author, poet, and playwright. The writer’s life and work traces his odyssey from Brooklyn to Taos with a dose of magical realism along the way.
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stones, passing

Posted on June 21, 2016 by John Biscello

Morning-Beams-and-Cleaning-Piece-Riverbed-Yoko-Ono

At the carnival
I was most intrigued
by the stone-swallower.
A waifish bronze-skinned
lady with dark hair,
plaited, and slender
fingers.
I was rapt,
watching the way
she carefully arranged
the stones to form
a sort of pyramid
at her bare feet.

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Elegy

Posted on June 20, 2016 by John Biscello
small hands
folding paper cranes
as grief rises
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Cafe

Posted on June 20, 2016 by John Biscello
At the small, time-worn
cafe, the woman in the
bell-shaped hat
of crushed green velvet, palms
warmed by the chipped enamel
mug of dark coffee, this woman,
setting adrift a gondola of words
to cross the unsayable,
reaching, with grave intent,
toward her lover, the empty chair
holding him infinitely near.
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Drift

Posted on June 19, 2016 by John Biscello
How to live
patiently, in praise
of mysterious drift, the questions
burning dark in your heart, stolen keys
fitted to foreign locks;
you, spy
and thief
to your own drama, holding shadows
to high standards, must abide
with fierce intent, and not seek meaning
or easy answers, but how to live,
with Grace as your witness,
at the center of an enigma.
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Regarding Miss Stein

Posted on June 16, 2016 by John Biscello

rose is a rose

How the petaled
complexities of the infinite rose
is a rose
is a rose
sires tender turns
through mounting cursive.
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Finite Jest

Posted on June 15, 2016 by John Biscello
Picking God’s scabs
with a savage hangnail—
define satire.
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Witness

Posted on June 15, 2016 by John Biscello
Divine,
immeasurable
wedlock between
infinitely charged particles;
I, humbly engaged,
to bear witness
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Julie

Posted on June 13, 2016 by John Biscello
snow II
I.
Eyes.
When I called them
winterblue, you said,
oh really, the O
a fat bright balloon
twisted
into a curious animal.
Really, I insisted,
and explained
how, when written,
I’d compound
winter and blue,
words holding hands
to get the eyes
just right.
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