Tag Archives: poem

You Not There (triptych)

Posted on September 23, 2026 by John Biscello

1. Can you imagine your life without you in it? I can. And cannot. Can and cannot, because when I am not there, who is doing the saying, who the authoring, who or what the voice? You must imagine yourself … Continue reading →

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Q.

Posted on September 23, 2026 by John Biscello

Can you imagine your life without you in it? An inquiry, and unwritten obituary, concerned not with facts, but with tracking the vividly suspect fiction of a disappearance rumored to be happening in real-time.

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Catalog

Posted on September 23, 2026 by John Biscello

I could not stare into anyone’s eyes too long. It was like staring openly at the sun. The light was too much to bear. Not to mention, within the stunning freight of light projected from eyes were congealed glittering specks … Continue reading →

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False Alarm

Posted on September 21, 2026 by John Biscello

the author in me died a lonely long time ago death (too singular to adapt and stay alive in this new-moving world of word-species and endangered text) the author lying through his teeth to pardon me revived every time the … Continue reading →

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Waltz

Posted on September 21, 2026 by John Biscello

In the latent vernacular and trespass of mind-breaths spanning space-time, crystallized as rapt intimacies and wax seal giving the dreaming-voice its human due and proof of residence, we scratch in lost measure– I Wuz Here– followed by the fading tracks … Continue reading →

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Sphinx

Posted on September 21, 2026 by John Biscello

Who lost, what found? What found, who lost? The mystery conched in the mouth of the Sphinx, in a world-spinning complex of lost and found, hide and seek, a series of trespasses breaching parameters wholly invented to keep us trespassing … Continue reading →

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Vespers

Posted on September 18, 2026 by John Biscello

Blues running warm to the touch of wounds fingered and sung in scales leavened by light rising to kiss the mouth of grace unspeakably choir.

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Daybook

Posted on September 18, 2026 by John Biscello

September is autumn’s mortuary rattle and lisp, its first gasp murmurs, as if lovers kissing underwater syncing, the sacrifice of breath, to the magnetic thrall of darkening descent.

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Reap

Posted on September 16, 2026 by John Biscello

In the shadows of words, fulfilling the scythe and progeny of endearment, voices stalk air in hot sincere pursuit of grace’s voluminous unsayable.

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Saudade

Posted on September 16, 2026 by John Biscello

Solitude waxing blankly the sepia ebb of lost hours– Autumn recalls the moon in perigee and scandal, a ballad stripped bare to elegy’s standards.

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