Tag Archives: Poetry

Draft

Posted on September 16, 2016 by John Biscello

There are no mirrors here, yet everywhere I see myself, a bated draft of furls, each bearing the right to exist, and respire ably.

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Epitaph, the Hidden Diary of an Inner Child

Posted on September 13, 2016 by John Biscello

Today: Bidden by tatters, and gravity’s mutable arc, the palpitations guide me. They are subtle, duly engaged, a milk-slow run of shivers. Bracing the rim, I peer out of cavedark: everything is sudden, color-soaked, a ferocious din and melt, fringed … Continue reading →

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Recall

Posted on September 6, 2016 by John Biscello

It is, I think, the rote platitudes and uniform responses drawn from an armored template or assembly-line gremlin (another day another dollar, same old same old, can’t complain, yea but you’ve got to be realistic) that are the slow malignant … Continue reading →

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How Fall Happens

Posted on August 29, 2016 by John Biscello

Plunging climate of needles and memory, a plaited sorrow. I listen, with mute intent, for the fetal cortege of leaves, turning then falling fast into the maternal crook of an outgoing wind.

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The Horse’s Mouth

Posted on August 25, 2016 by John Biscello

Audio track of the spoken word piece, “The Horse’s Mouth” (for Dylan Thomas), with Ben Wright on bass, published in the September issue of the Virtual Artists Collective. Listen here.

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Usher

Posted on August 22, 2016 by John Biscello

August, its days nearly numbered, summer’s pink noiseless fade and exit (how cicadas bury their voices in hollows of silence), autumn’s fresh jags of Memory, reaping, with finite sorrow, the climate-cracked shells of seeds (how tiny birds bury their songs … Continue reading →

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Bearing

Posted on August 18, 2016 by John Biscello

Friends, and loved ones, I know that so many of you are struggling with shadow-play right now, that your hands are busy knitting in the dark, negotiating long-held absences and haunts, humanly attempting to massage muddle and confusion into clarity; … Continue reading →

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Beat, Bop & Abstraction

Posted on August 12, 2016 by John Biscello

It took place in an amnesiac haze and fury, numberless nights of lightningspeak and opiate rabble, rocketfuel and anti-freeze, bright ribbons of noise amounting to worry stones indenting the soft pink center of palms, on and on and on, fugitive … Continue reading →

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Bedsores

Posted on July 31, 2016 by John Biscello

In the permanent flophouse Love reigns supreme— A tried and torn migrant ready to drop from chronic fatigue.

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Meaning of the Mob

Posted on July 28, 2016 by John Biscello

The Meaning of the Mob.  I say, the Mob, meaning the Definitely Uncertain, Fixed—a liberal form of physics— or the clotted swarm wallforming brick by brick, a mosaic pattern.      Pick a number, any number, it’s a given. A given what, … Continue reading →

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