Process of Echoes

Posted on October 19, 2022 by John Biscello

Grief attends to the bones. And does so listening to the spaces between the hollows where the ghosts are held hissing where loss compounded by fractures gives rise to near distant voices crying out on behalf of all that’s gone missing.

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Reform

Posted on October 18, 2022 by John Biscello

Out here we fast on slimming heaps of gratitude. None of us are greedy. Everyone gets their helpings. We chow down on gratitude and then pass it along making sure everyone gets their fill. Gratitude has become our beef stock our bone broth our nourishment. We feed then pass it on. The passing on is the thing. It is the right passage the lighted one. We have experienced countless wrong passages that left us hands high in the air cursing at clouds or weeping into scarred palms wondering about passageways wandered and why always wrong. But no more. We fast on slimming heaps of gratitude and no one moans no one bitches. Complaining no longer part of our vernacular. It has been eradicated. Abolished. A new day dawning has dawned for us and is perpetually dawning. The loop we are caught in is caught in us. Acceptance of all the key to one.

If music be the proof of love then play on. Someone said this once. We heard it in the volumes of echoes. There’s a lot we have heard from the volumes of echoes but you cannot discern the sources of voices. No citations only anonymities. Voices voicing with no bones holding distinction. Distinctions references footnotes all that left long ago. But to go back to what we heard said If music be the proof of love then play on. We decided that was us from what we were made. The gist of our essence raveled in this core phrase echoing from wherever. We have become a hymnal species kissing our mirrorless want on the lips.  

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Lot

Posted on October 17, 2022 by John Biscello

We are out here on all fours panting in the sun the bleary merciless maraschino sun burning us. It has been a long while one of those spells that feels foreverish out here in these fields unseen dreaming of god knows what. We are permanently scarred. Some of us suggested we become a group that goes by the name Permanently Scarred maybe a band except none of us sing or play an instrument. I’d say we are disembodied voices except we are on all fours with the sun burning us so something like bodies something like skin must be our lot and inheritance. Knowing the void answerless you’d think we’d stop asking questions but we don’t What’s for dinner Where’s the moon Did we do something to deserve this. We ask answerless and listen hoping dreamless.  You could call us a sorry bunch but then again not knowing whether finite or infinite there is nothing to assess no one to blame. There’s just us on all fours the sun burning unrelenting. If we decide to call ourselves Permanently Scarred maybe one of us will learn to sing so we can earn our name. It’s either that or absolute silence which none of us have yet tried.

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Near to Edges

Posted on October 17, 2022 by John Biscello

Words meant to be read aloud inside your head. A paradox yes but true. To be read aloud inside your head could be the preface the header the suggestion accompanying the texts. In this respect you may hear the music. The music being the lasting proof. The words are auxiliary components. Honorable appendages. Everything bears its own dignity. How to cooperate how to merge how to mate harmoniously with the dignities of all aspects corresponding. This the question the quest the domain unmapped. This the homage to craft. Words to be read aloud inside your head to become music felt and heard. Felt resonances being one of the keys. To feelize the intent the song pulsing throbbing beneath the skin giving birth to the need the cast of words.  Correspondences between worlds between voices unseen presences felt. Feelizations. Words within sentences hold hands becoming family while accumulating intensities shades nuances to foster complexion. Every sentence a song unto itself favored within the broader context of symphony of moving parts asked to keep still while moving on forever. Motion and stasis the best of friends. Tensions circulating inside magnetic jazz thatting this way and thissing that. Music is proof lasting. The course is play. Stories carry the heart and void of forever within their endless voices. Words to be read aloud inside your head by warm lamplight. Never directives only suggestions. Only subjective reinterpretations remixed with verve.    

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Proofs

Posted on October 17, 2022 by John Biscello

Once upon a time is a necessary mirage. Flesh born of word and bones fulfilling myth. Stories are the means to endlessness. They go on and on. We go on and on carried along by stories carrying within them the seeds of the lasting born. In the telling we are told. We are voiced along invisible currents which babble white tongued spirals and cadent intimacies. We being the keepers of the flood. Stories bubble up from under the great weeping the sleepover dreaming spells of multi versal lives refraining. We clone ourselves as test proofs. We give shape to our voices with alchemy blessing our gist. For days on end we weep with unabashed gratitude for all that ever was or is. We can’t help but weep after having touched the pulpy magnetic core of something so redeemably soft so defenseless. Stories are the means to endlessness. We are the tellers and the told. Once upon a time is a raging mirage by all means necessary.

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Dawn

Posted on October 16, 2022 by John Biscello

Between lisping partitions of rain we ache. We long. It has been called this mortal longing this calculation of histories of distances. We seek the symmetries of lost hours in threads of rain falling graying glaring we reach between to fondle what can never be held only cherished. We run the risk for lasting symmetries. We seek with seeking being the side effect to breathing to nostalgia for living. We are seeking our truest forms. We have grown and raised golems half lit emerging as liminal wants. Our golems our mirrors seeding our truest born. Words keep us company. They are lighted proof of something or other. The words a harem of fireflies also embers christlike in their flagrance and scorch. The words are our lot. Invisible filaments dangle everywhere in this world between worlds filaments as the veins to an infinite geography to white hot plains mapped out by arteries. Here we ache here we long here we grow inaudibly moist with slaking want. From the molten core songs arise as summons. We sing for lost hours for symmetries sought. We are needful things with needful claims seeking our truest forms. Every golem mirrors its maker its shaper in shadows of creeping cradling dawn.

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Fade

Posted on October 16, 2022 by John Biscello

It has been called this mortal longing and we have all hailed there all ached there swearing. Between lisping partitions of rain we seek phantom threads blue gray promising to guide us down unmarked roads to deepening distances. Seeking being the side effect to breathing to nostalgia for living. There is no cause only risk. Only want within rain falling to christen to cherish our defenseless fade.

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Holy Dark

Posted on October 16, 2022 by John Biscello

In the dark I tell myself stories cycling through different guises different spells and guesses to sublimate an existential itch I cannot scratch. In batches the words arrive wingless like immigrants from distant shores. I go there hungover from daily bread to kiss them to issue intimate welcomes. The words gather to form a title to align a cause Homecoming for Exiles. In the shadows of the words growing warmer to me I suddenly realize I am speechless. I don’t know what or how to say. A silence soul killing not golden. A fuzzy glowing one presently unformed that one day may grow up to become wisteria or adagio flickers and softly lisps Chill the fuck out. I bow before this wise word this buddha fleabite of lyrical say so. The words a harem of fireflies each light an ember christlike in its fault and burn. In the dark in sync with tiniest flares I tell myself stories carried along on tides and furies of telling to only god knows where or why this longing.

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Children of the Moon

Posted on October 14, 2022 by John Biscello

We lie here in fields dreaming unseen and fondle ourselves forgetting ourselves. In intermittent flashes elegies come as summons as reminders of what it was like to be human whenever that was. What was it like to be human the commonest refrain one voice trailing another then the next amassing a cortege. Each voice every voice carries within it seeds from great distances. None of us have names. We are indivisible mergers without claim to singularity. None of us can be seen. Presences felt stirrings resonances in waves of voices drifting veiling overlapping. The waves amass tidal asking in white roars and muted grays What was it like to be human. None of us can recollect. Continuity of selves long gone we carry on as mergers allied to moving distances repeating again and again What was it like to be human echoing the call of every and all.

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Lore and Order

Posted on October 13, 2022 by John Biscello

We recall fondly. We recollect. The good old days in which we titled windmills redolently and rode dusty clanging boxcars across the horizontal spread of america What a lay we said hitching our pants sticking our peckers into every gopher hole and indian eardrum we could wrestle or manage. The good old days an unrolling panoramic canvas of america painted over with screaming reds graying blues earth turning browns others colors running together like luxuries found lost. We posed as sheriffs marshaling laws to frontiers unexplored my god we were real artists then painting with the light just right to conceal any shadows creeping unwanted across borders.

From beyond history I sit here now in this boxcar a tramp with torn baggy trousers too tight vest and dustcaked bowler writing songs no one will ever sing but that’s fine just fine. A train trackless running outside of time is concerned solely with mythology. Mythology in this case being the present moment expanded upon infinitely within the mantling of lore.

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