Tag Archives: Poetry

Immigration Laws

Posted on November 24, 2019 by John Biscello

We are immigrants in our own skin, flash-fire refugees who get by with falsified papers, fake IDs, and forged signatures. If caught and found guilty of a trespass or transgression, we pardon ourselves in our native tongues, language a placeholder … Continue reading →

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Claim for the Meek

Posted on November 24, 2019 by John Biscello

I do not want to see the face of God. I want to see her mask, where and for whom it cracked, the causal history of lines and fissures; want to trace, with blind mute innocence, the light quartered and … Continue reading →

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Sylvia Plath

Posted on November 24, 2019 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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Anne Sexton

Posted on November 24, 2019 by John Biscello

It begins with a stopwatch, and a glass of water. The stopwatch belonged to her father, or to her father’s father. The glass of water is a joke. Imagine trying to remedy all that desert within, all that scabbing red … Continue reading →

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John Fante

Posted on November 24, 2019 by John Biscello

Inferiority might have been your first memory. Though you were born on American soil, Denver, CO, April 8th, 1909, the chinked chains of immigration had you by the throat and bowels, pinched your nerves as you butted your head against … Continue reading →

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Galactic Bulb

Posted on November 22, 2019 by John Biscello

Teaser poem from the upcoming collection, Houses of a Crystal Muse (Wild Embers Press), an astro-poetic collaboration/dialogue with Antoniette Nora Claypoole. Featuring images by Issa De Nicola and Anthony Distefano. 

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Ow, She Said. And Wow.

Posted on November 7, 2019 by John Biscello

She stared at the solitary gull perched on a craggy rock. The sea, like undulating slates of purplish steel, or bruised rust, while a glaring wound of a sunset poured scarlet ribbons from its Martian gash. The gull flies away, … Continue reading →

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October’s Bones

Posted on October 21, 2019 by John Biscello

In honor of the 50th anniversary of Jack Kerouac’s “death-day” departure for roads unknown. When I was a young man, a budding scribe eager to blossom white fire, and scabbed lotuses, you meant the world to me. You exposed me … Continue reading →

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Free Play

Posted on October 7, 2019 by John Biscello

We live in a world of alchemy and swing, a freeform board game for sounding and experiment, and anyone that tells you any different has simply forgotten how to engage the play of their lives, or sow the grit, resin … Continue reading →

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Homing Device

Posted on October 7, 2019 by John Biscello

The soul doesn’t calculate, it syncs itself to the legend of its origins, the glyphic runes and white-hot bones of constellational remains, where we, in costumed exile, linger and tow the fasting freight of dreams, upon which our lives are … Continue reading →

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