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Meta
Tag Archives: John Biscello
Riversong
Show us where it is you’re dying, the silent ebb and roaring tides of dark, expose to us, with a scalpel’s exactitude, the finite lineage of your deepest wounds and locks, and we promise that the light’s searing of naked … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged death, God, gospel, help, John Biscello, life, love, mercy, wounds
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Thursday’s Child
Wrapped snugly in a blanket of godlight, Thursday’s child indwells the symmetry of tigers burning bright to leave tracks on empty.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged God, John Biscello, Light, love, poem, Poetry, tigers
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Arc
Starstruck, and wrestling within mortal coils, God’s lucid fame overshadows the cast of our solitary arc.
Proof
With the grave mortal nearness that only distance can bring, we enter the bruised, secret heart of our childhood, a stalker’s negative proof, slow-burned to exposure and fade.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged childhood, exposure, fade, John Biscello, love, poem, Poetry
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Torch
How a writer, cave-timing dark and solitude, annoints an ember by crafting the small hours into a flagrant torch.
Six
I was six when I found out I’d never become a super hero. We were in the kitchen. Me, my mother and father. My father’s hand was around my mother’s throat. He had a wild, bloodshot, not-there look … Continue reading
Posted in Prose, Uncategorized
Tagged bones, family, father, John Biscello, Literary, mother, no man's brooklyn, Prose, story
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Scripture
To be swallowed, wordless, as the worst you always feared turns lighted proof into lasting scripture.
Flint
I also saw Anya on that trip, though our meeting was unplanned. I was on the subway platform waiting for the train when I spotted a thin girl in torn jeans and a bright green tank-top walking in my … Continue reading
Posted in Prose, Uncategorized
Tagged addiction, anya, boy, Brooklyn, girl, John Biscello, Literary, loss, Prose
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Second-Hand
We, as time-worn saboteurs, engage the history of scabs and locks, resetting old wounds to the hands of a busted clock.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged John Biscello, Literary, poem, Poetry, time, wounds
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Wish You Were Here
Send us postcards from your loneliest places, your fault-lines and secret rivets, send us words and we promise not to burn them, we promise that something of the ineffable will stick, as if a lasting thorn in God’s bruised paw.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged God, John Biscello, Literary, poem, Poetry, postcard, wish you were here
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John Biscello 