John Biscello

Near to the bones of warming solitude. Within vagrancy’s timelocked spells we wander you could say we are wanderstruck. Modes of lyrical living allows us to bask in living alone in the company of words stories voices. For them we are grateful. Gratitude extends many hands. Tentacles of light everywhere everywhichway in this raging carnival. Here now we wander timedumbed down as vagrants seeding trust to the word and seeking truest home in every port in the storm through every bugled call. We wander and with the gravest most tender intimacies of spirit alone we cherish the gifts bestowed upon us by solitude. Many voices frothing bubbling in which the witch’s cauldron in which we bathe because spells of all variations work upon as balms. We are seekers for songs. And the word when inhabiting the slow burn of rising arc. Symmetry as a lucid whole provides us daily bread and nourishing manna. Symmetry calls to us as opportunities to cherish to bless. All the lost hours cradled within symmetry’s crooks and nooks hold us tenderly hostage. Near to the bones of warming solitude the crises do not touch us in the same way. We are sealed within sanctums of humming gospel heard only by the ears of the broken. Some hearing is not about listening it is about aching. Communion through shared aching through blues that becomes hearing beyond ears intimate rapport secured through the merging of the broken blessed. The broken blessed scarred and singing as we breathe them in. Near to the bones of warming solitude everyone is the same everything equal. Sorrow the great equalizer. The blues as innate democracy sans politics to ache is to share in the song of our lot and grist as human collective. In My Solitude remixed as In Our Solitude micro macro in swing and exchange of jazzy vernacular. Lingo be the beat of our exile’s solitude rendered explicit. We word so as to warm ourselves. Near to the bones of warming solitude we parlay the thrift of embers into something magical seeming. Necessity the mother tongue of all things speaking all creations bonding. We a species of dreaming of remembering of seeking. To sing is to go on. To word is to give ourselves a lighting chance. Every ember flagrant. Every spark a chance at the infinite. Within the flames the images of women dancing keeping the dreaming alive keeping hope held high above mass spells of crises ongoing. Beyond the crises a choiceless root calm at the center. Near to the bones of warming solitude we are guided by the company of words stories voices we don’t know how or why.   

Artwork by Mark Rothko