Tag Archives: God

Juice

Posted on March 29, 2018 by John Biscello

Slow kind of winter, Spring, mainlining taproot juice, hastens light to mold.

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Network

Posted on March 27, 2018 by John Biscello

As you can see, God’s original sketches for the world did not include people, which makes you wonder if there was indeed a wager he lost to some lucky devil or other who forced him to include people in the … Continue reading →

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Autobiography

Posted on March 25, 2018 by John Biscello

To know myself, a rogue aggregate of loving atoms, a happy shivering clusterfuck of luminous baubles banded together to forge and assume an alleged identity, no papers or pulpit required, to fulfill an arc, and heart-guided directives, to be a … Continue reading →

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No Sound, No Fury

Posted on March 11, 2018 by John Biscello

Moses, caped in shroud, awaiting new commandments– Silence, turned up loud.   (Photo by Edward Steichen)

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Pulpit

Posted on March 11, 2018 by John Biscello

At the true pulpit, Silence reigns, speaking volumes– To praise, we listen.

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Lodge

Posted on March 11, 2018 by John Biscello

Hell, according to Sartre, is other people. When I arrived, god knows where, silence, dust, clouds, a time-scarred sign and not a soul anywhere to be found, I began, in earnest, and jest, to wonder if Sartre was right, heaven, … Continue reading →

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Breadth

Posted on March 8, 2018 by John Biscello

To revel in awe, just cause for breathing deep, slow, breadth taking you in.   (Photo by Anne Brigman)

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Playground

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

In the end, as in the beginning, we shall find that the whole cyclical shebanga was a mischievous riot, a fool’s paradise of child’s play upon fluorescent plasma, or to parrot the enlightened pearls of Mister Voltaire, “God is a … Continue reading →

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Canticle

Posted on March 1, 2018 by John Biscello

Thistles, structuring a feral paragraph in open space, as the stray feather, cruciform to fence, parlays the canticle of Muse, unfettered.

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Coil

Posted on February 20, 2018 by John Biscello

To caper at the edge, where the seething lyric happens, poetry with slits and fast teeth, where the hours of phenomena are boiled and reduced to a single quivering instant, an umbilical knot of light upon tenderest scraps and coils. … Continue reading →

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