Tag Archives: dreams

I Don’t Know

Posted on May 25, 2018 by John Biscello

After I love you the three most powerful and talismanic words in the language might be I don’t know, instant reducer of ego, canal-cleanser for deeper listening, ventilator of humility and breathing room, not to mention a reverential nod and … Continue reading →

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Voracity

Posted on May 22, 2018 by John Biscello

She, baring teeth lodged in the jaws of dreamlife, grazes on symmetry and swaths of fire, this diet, recommended in due measures for dreamers only, trades in the manna of satisfaction for whole-bellied hunger, a voracious reckon and spiritual art … Continue reading →

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Of Caves and Dreams

Posted on May 22, 2018 by John Biscello

Molten, these dreams run, hot, then cold, I, in turn, shift to watch the shadows, balletic ink dancing and lengthening on prehistoric cave walls, and decide that Plato was wrong– We do not mistake shadows for reality, but rather, ourselves, … Continue reading →

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Theater of Fire

Posted on May 22, 2018 by John Biscello

We are spinning on a magma-veined rock that hangs in space, yes, that, in and of itself, phenomena, but for another take– a perfect circle of a world, a teeming galactic bulb hosting the seismic grift and throb of human … Continue reading →

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Treaty

Posted on May 8, 2018 by John Biscello

The warring, within, ended. No one won. White flags, adorning the masts of souls, became the rage and pacific vogue. Ghosts kissed demons, demons kissed children, children blew kisses into the air, christening echoes. I woke up, sudden to my … Continue reading →

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Shrift

Posted on May 8, 2018 by John Biscello

The soft bop and shrift of dreams, how they rake and tumble, colored Braille for a blind vagrant, stunned.

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Anais Nin

Posted on April 19, 2018 by John Biscello

Invention was your solitude, your twin, wasn’t it, Miss Nin? The way you spread secret pages like silk violet capes, like fringed shawls, over an air of mystery, and err of desire. You enabled symmetry, to confess. Why couldn’t a … Continue reading →

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Morning

Posted on April 11, 2018 by John Biscello

Scars worn out to fade, old records played in small hours– Dreams chased by morning.

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Anne Sexton

Posted on April 9, 2018 by John Biscello

It begins with a stopwatch, and a glass of water. The stopwatch belonged to her father, or to her father’s father. The glass of water is a joke. Imagine trying to remedy all that desert within, all that scabbing red … Continue reading →

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Growing Young

Posted on April 2, 2018 by John Biscello

I want to grow young with you, she said. It made perfect sense. People had it all wrong. You don’t grow old, your body, this borrowed vessel, it withers and ages and decays, your body grows old, your brain grows … Continue reading →

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