Tag Archives: poem

Turn Turn Turn

Posted on January 17, 2025 by John Biscello

Each spring they return,bound to renew small wonders–Innocent by turns. (Artwork by Izumi Yokoyama)

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Seer

Posted on January 17, 2025 by John Biscello

How little they know,of her flights beyond reason–Her world, winged, widens. (Artwork by Izumi Yokoyama)

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I Don’t Wanna Work on Daddy’s Farm No More

Posted on January 17, 2025 by John Biscello

Nesting, she broodedon the future of free range–No claims to hold her. (Artwork by Izumi Yokoyama)

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Disintegration (The Cure)

Posted on January 17, 2025 by John Biscello

No sitters to tend,solvent to its own winter–If these floors could talk. (Installation by Izumi Yokoyama)

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Girl, Interrupted

Posted on January 17, 2025 by John Biscello

The girl in the chairis no longer the girl in the chair,she is neither here nor there,she is always and forget-me-not,soul-spray and glacial uproarcausing a siege,she is the spidery patternsof her exploded heart,woven in to the ritual symmetryof a fibrous … Continue reading →

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Body Double

Posted on January 17, 2025 by John Biscello

It would be the last time, the last thinning whatever that gave night its fool’s edge and lyrical tilt— Scraping half-moon fingernails against famished odds, he briefly paused to consider the bottomless gorge of a hungry ghost demanding of its … Continue reading →

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The Odds

Posted on January 17, 2025 by John Biscello

He had searched high and low, mostly low, but he knew his fate, rigged to electrical impulses and happenstance, waited somewhere between a wrong number and an empty glass. He squeezed the lucky rabbit foot in his pocket, a prayer, … Continue reading →

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Vertical

Posted on January 17, 2025 by John Biscello

One of those lighted windows would change his life forever— It was matter of calculated ascent, and guessing right for once.

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Some Like It Hot

Posted on January 17, 2025 by John Biscello

Traversing, in a beat shuffle and worn cadence, many oblique side streets and shadow-stained back alleys to arrive at where he now stood— the white-hot lure and rigged bait of a suspect angel, who played hard to get, beckoned with … Continue reading →

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The Sorceress

Posted on November 11, 2024 by John Biscello

To be a mother, and to double as a dark sorceress, a cleaver of dried bones, could not have been easy. Especially in the 1950s. They burned witches then, as well as reds and blacks and faggots, and other things … Continue reading →

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