Tag Archives: Literary

Cinema

Posted on November 22, 2016 by John Biscello

When rooted squarely in the flickering center of your life as a mysterious cinematic expedition, duly resigned to the happy burning of chapters and missives, it is there and then that fascination, like a dimestore Virgil, takes curious hold, enacting … Continue reading →

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Review of Carnet d’AmeriKa

Posted on November 21, 2016 by John Biscello

“To be human is to transform; to be human is to name, then name anew. I must remember the inseparable nature of word and action.” Erin Currier, 6 November, 2004 In a sense this passage became one of Erin Currier’s … Continue reading →

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Floor Plan

Posted on November 20, 2016 by John Biscello

    Photo shoot of novel-in-progress, Nocturne Variations 

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Catalog

Posted on November 17, 2016 by John Biscello

The sea is the sea but it is also a sound recording of the sea, it is Memory, shroud and fathomless, and freighted with echoes. It is the case history of forgotten species and myths, the ghostlight of dead stars.

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Wraith

Posted on November 17, 2016 by John Biscello

In a brief lighted instance, a rending flicker, he measured and recalled, a rumpled and well-worn patch of dark velvet, sun-warmed, and touching the skin of teeth to Memory, he grieved her, fashioning haunt from thin fabled air.

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Bird’s Eye View

Posted on November 11, 2016 by John Biscello

(For Leonard Cohen) As the bird on the wire trills its last delicious electric notes, the vibrato hum begins to resound in Heaven.

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Symmetry

Posted on November 8, 2016 by John Biscello

It is only when you learn how to tango like a crab along the sea’s mirrored edge, that language, as master to its own silence, hastens words to dance with the symmetry of intent.

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Homecoming

Posted on November 8, 2016 by John Biscello

Listening to the dark for years on end, the slow and vested maturation of a writer’s craft and homecoming.  

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Rose in Winter

Posted on November 7, 2016 by John Biscello

Inherent is this basking fragility which announces the wild rose, bending devoutly to kiss the earth, as shadow to first love, mighty in its lasting yearn and abandon.

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Fort

Posted on November 6, 2016 by John Biscello

It has become my last refuge, a solitary outpost upon which the broken bit of sun seared into my palm, mirroring stigmata, has given my name as refutable evidence and signature.

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