Tag Archives: grace

Company

Posted on April 17, 2025 by John Biscello

In the company of numinous graces and unremembered lots Infinity counts upon phenomenal breadth and bandwidth to maximize its local market value within the human plot.

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Still Life

Posted on August 23, 2023 by John Biscello

In our petitions for mercy repose is the standard by which we elicit the preferred company of grace.

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Seeds

Posted on October 28, 2020 by John Biscello

The other day I met a monk who juggled watermelon seeds with his tongue. When I asked him how he did it, he spit the seeds at me, a staccato stream of seeds as if the monk were no monk … Continue reading →

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Butterfly, in Black and White

Posted on June 4, 2020 by John Biscello

Yesterday, before the fist-prints made their way onto the walls of the gallery as a show of solidarity, there was a moment, one of those small simple yet powerful moments which are easily dismissed or overlooked. Me, and my partner, … Continue reading →

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Visitation

Posted on June 18, 2018 by John Biscello

Above all else, (she told me, her smile a glowing sickle) dignity and grace, for each and every soul on this planet, no one above, no one below, and everything I mean everything you truly need to know you’ve already … Continue reading →

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Orphan

Posted on May 20, 2018 by John Biscello

The greatest lies I learned as a child seperated my soul from its choir, a violent breaching that took the littlest me to the far ends of my self, where I found, in dwelling, Beauty, untrammeled, opening her palm to … Continue reading →

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Jean Rhys

Posted on April 22, 2018 by John Biscello

You held the islands in your eyes, where it rained and rained and then the sun warmed wet to a wafting hiss. This Jean, you, the feline slink, filigreed shock, and sinewy comb of whitelaced waves ruffling upon puttied blobs … Continue reading →

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Sway

Posted on April 18, 2018 by John Biscello

To sway, with corset no more to bind, hips parlaying grace, to rivet greening desire.

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Fount

Posted on April 14, 2018 by John Biscello

I have heard her sing, lungs, founting with light, to braid dark hours into grace.

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Next

Posted on April 10, 2018 by John Biscello

The lushest red rose, a fragile torch passed, to grace whatever comes next.

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