Tag Archives: poem

Legendless

Posted on February 18, 2018 by John Biscello

Watch the vaudeville sharks take big rending bites out of our amens! and know that our routines, tired and untrue, serve no purpose except diversions which keep tick-talking heads at a low, grave premium, false totems bereft of ceremony and … Continue reading →

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Valentine

Posted on February 15, 2018 by John Biscello

Our Lady of Eternal Valentines, forever bestowing tenderest mercy and heart-shaped harbor to the world’s sorrowful lot.

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Palmistry

Posted on February 6, 2018 by John Biscello

Eternity, misconceived as a noun, and now? My palms stay open all night.

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Cubist Pin-Up

Posted on January 30, 2018 by John Biscello

Psychically dismembered since birth, Grace walked her palms to her feet, and prayed that everything lost, in between, would return ritually transfigured.

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Arc

Posted on January 28, 2018 by John Biscello

A siren’s coin of slivered light beading the tunnel’s darkened maw; a long night’s journey into day fulfills the promise of a fabled arc.    

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Born in Translation

Posted on January 26, 2018 by John Biscello

I sometimes think of writing as the vocational practice of learning to translate, with accuracy of spirit, the parts of me, unrecognized, unseen, unsigned, that echo from an intimately faraway hollow of interior space.  

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Woolf’s Bane

Posted on January 25, 2018 by John Biscello

In honor of Virginia Woolf’s birthday.  Through a glass, darkly, splitting of selves by prism– Wide berth for one’s I.    

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Ben Franklin 5.0

Posted on January 19, 2018 by John Biscello

When a nation becomes a paid advertisement for itself founding fathers turn over in their graves which they share with the ghosts of slaves whose chains they inherited on karmic loan.  

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Unlearned

Posted on January 18, 2018 by John Biscello

We are God’s longing to know herself on intimate, unfettered terms, human to the radiant touch and tenderest basking, infinitely unlearned.  

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Wellspring

Posted on January 10, 2018 by John Biscello

Through the grace of repetition, the writing life grounded in the slow, wistful measures of wellspring’s fortune.

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