Tag Archives: Literary

Totem

Posted on June 27, 2016 by John Biscello

   Here, her mother said, pressing something into her palm.    A pinch.    A pinch, breaking skin, spreading blush and heat.    She looked down—her palm now tattooed with a tangle of dark glyphs; a concert of spirals, curlicues … Continue reading →

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Yellow is the Color of my Sad

Posted on June 26, 2016 by John Biscello

Yellow is the color of my sad, how it runs. Some think it is blue but it is not. Blue is the common choice for color/me/sad, the popular one (how moods get typecast), but yellow is much sadder than blue, … Continue reading →

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Dust Bunny

Posted on June 25, 2016 by John Biscello

“I went to the kitchen and fixed myself another drink. Then I went over to the door leading out to the deck and looked through its glass window. The sky, mottled and ominous, looked like it was on the verge … Continue reading →

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Interview on The Last Word

Posted on June 22, 2016 by John Biscello

Podcast of my interview on The Last Word. Listen here. Show description: John Biscello, author, poet, and playwright. The writer’s life and work traces his odyssey from Brooklyn to Taos with a dose of magical realism along the way.

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stones, passing

Posted on June 21, 2016 by John Biscello

At the carnival I was most intrigued by the stone-swallower. A waifish bronze-skinned lady with dark hair, plaited, and slender fingers. I was rapt, watching the way she carefully arranged the stones to form a sort of pyramid at her … Continue reading →

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Elegy

Posted on June 20, 2016 by John Biscello

small hands folding paper cranes as grief rises

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Cafe

Posted on June 20, 2016 by John Biscello

At the small, time-worn cafe, the woman in the bell-shaped hat of crushed green velvet, palms warmed by the chipped enamel mug of dark coffee, this woman, setting adrift a gondola of words to cross the unsayable, reaching, with grave … Continue reading →

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Drift

Posted on June 19, 2016 by John Biscello

How to live patiently, in praise of mysterious drift, the questions burning dark in your heart, stolen keys fitted to foreign locks; you, spy and thief to your own drama, holding shadows to high standards, must abide with fierce intent, … Continue reading →

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Regarding Miss Stein

Posted on June 16, 2016 by John Biscello

How the petaled complexities of the infinite rose is a rose is a rose sires tender turns through mounting cursive.

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Finite Jest

Posted on June 15, 2016 by John Biscello

Picking God’s scabs with a savage hangnail— define satire.

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