Tag Archives: love

Wordburn

Posted on June 17, 2018 by John Biscello

Between the call of bodies, testing the ream of vocabulary’s limits, words exact their talent for slow burn, and quicken to replenish.

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Slant

Posted on June 17, 2018 by John Biscello

There are no promissory notes in life, there are fugitive scraps upon which we can opt to scribble our heart’s mind, and most tender sublime, tatters registered to light’s lilting slant, granting us grace from unexpected angles.

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All Those Who Enter

Posted on June 17, 2018 by John Biscello

The young boy asked me, What is it exactly that grows in the cavehunger depths and wilds of the heart? No one knows, dear boy, it is the most hidden and magnificent of countries, all I can say is that … Continue reading →

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How the Heart Rains

Posted on June 17, 2018 by John Biscello

My heart, as a fool forever in love with love’s mercurial climate, does not beg for static coverage, or seasons to stop voicing their natural patterns, yet my heart, childlike in its prehistory, sometimes strives to alchemize the weather, to … Continue reading →

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Fireproof

Posted on June 17, 2018 by John Biscello

Learn to stand still, inviolably still, in the vortex of fire, and bear true witness; every bloom holds within its tenor the epitaph of it ashes, every loss tenders the wick for epiphany, learn to remain softly yet firmly still … Continue reading →

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Cavespeak

Posted on June 17, 2018 by John Biscello

Sometimes it is like surfing the gloam and reaching down to draw softly rounded syllables from curdles of gray in order to raise the heart’s homesick climes from its deepest and most hidden caves.

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Mouth

Posted on June 14, 2018 by John Biscello

That mouth, I remember, an evocative nursery of lost things, a fierce swallower of galactic bulbs and starburned roots, it took in so much, didn’t it? announcing to the belly’s slowchurning greenfire, to the lips bluequiver icegarden riot, I am … Continue reading →

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Roots

Posted on June 14, 2018 by John Biscello

My heart, forever the weeded ace and wandering fool, scored to secret pines, sings of resident gloam pooled in that forest of backlit signs, which grows beyond its clipped horizons to invigorate departures, spurred by the genius of wordless roots.

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Forecast

Posted on June 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Ask the divine wordless forecast, ask the motherless child staring off into the distance as she sails a paper airplane out the opened window.

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Ferally Yours

Posted on June 8, 2018 by John Biscello

Take your own pulse, and manic rave, to the wilds springing new weather, vigorous sync-up to the unknown, where pagan gospel will re-seed feral beginnings.

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