Tag Archives: poem

Sphinx

Posted on March 28, 2025 by John Biscello

Convicted sphinx to beguiling raptures, and time-spanned sync-holes, literary enigma, Clarice Lispector, understood keenly the tolling of ruptures within, sowing breath’s metered and fasting threads to the fractional seethe of holy and lent.

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Because the Night

Posted on March 27, 2025 by John Biscello

In lyrical, abetted praise of Patti Smith, white witch torchbearer of punk mettle and lightning bones— She, wildly grown and gutter-starred, remains in love and swelling thrall to the Romantic timbre and clash of Rimbaud’s unrelenting wake, or Plath’s penning … Continue reading →

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Bolano and Me

Posted on March 26, 2025 by John Biscello

Last night I dreamed of Roberto Bolaño. Or he of me. We were sitting at a dimly lit café, a subterranean plot of a café, and Bolaño was drinking chamomile tea. In the latter stages of his life chamomile tea … Continue reading →

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Seal

Posted on March 20, 2025 by John Biscello

Visionaries elope with themselves. Time-lapses of a shotgun wedding in a placeless tent ministered by the migrating wind and its sideshow cabal of voices— In the company of echoes, you kneel, and grow favorably intimate with unheard of distances closing … Continue reading →

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Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

Posted on March 18, 2025 by John Biscello

And on the eighth day, unseasonably warm, the hounds basking in hell, modeling balmy, crotch-rot bikinis in Gilead, called out— Please, God, let our leader mirror starkly our deepest fears and shadows, let him be as I, for I am … Continue reading →

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Conjugal

Posted on February 19, 2025 by John Biscello

Hoarfrost mingling with spring dew– Hunger, sated to bloom.

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Alone-In

Posted on February 19, 2025 by John Biscello

She grew infintely wet, a throbbing void and pulsing slate of Braille and intent– subletting, by touch, urgent spells of hunger to a silent fast.

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Meaning of the Mob

Posted on January 26, 2025 by John Biscello
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To the Lighthouse

Posted on January 24, 2025 by John Biscello
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First Cut

Posted on January 17, 2025 by John Biscello

Hard to move forward,when bound to what’s gone–She bought a new pairof industrial scissors. (Installation by Izumi Yokoyama)

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