Tag Archives: Poetry

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Posted on August 30, 2019 by John Biscello

Note to metamorphosizing self: every cocoon quivers and trembles, every process of change brings with it a new set of keys, and claims, every slumber implicitly contains the charge of wakefulness, and every grief minnows within a sea of holy … Continue reading →

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Beginner’s Heart

Posted on August 30, 2019 by John Biscello

I have spent so many years detailing and outlining and mapping out fractures, a pirate osteopath with a cartographer’s bent, and now, galvanizing a mutiny meant to take me out into uncharted waters, I see how beautiful and necessary it … Continue reading →

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Weathervane

Posted on August 30, 2019 by John Biscello

The secret to becoming a true revolutionary, lay yourself out upon the world’s limitless altar  of secrets, and praise the hidden roots of everything you encounter daily, heart bared as proof of light’s need to air.

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The Next Amendment

Posted on August 30, 2019 by John Biscello

We, as humans, have the inalienable right to bare hearts, pouring molten light and lush vines of dark, to practice humanity in all its patterns and forms, we, the living revolutionary works of art forever in the process of becoming … Continue reading →

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Love is Real, the Remix

Posted on August 30, 2019 by John Biscello

I thought I knew a lot, explanations analyses profound conjectures nothing new under the sun stupid is as stupid does tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow marathon swims in the think tank and abstractions wrapped like leaden scarves and flags round my neck … Continue reading →

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I Don’t Know

Posted on August 30, 2019 by John Biscello

After I love you the three most powerful and talismanic words in the language might be I don’t know, instant reducer of ego, canal-cleanser for deeper listening, ventilator of humility and breathing room, not to mention a reverential nod and … Continue reading →

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Childhood’s Wake

Posted on August 30, 2019 by John Biscello

You can feel it in the air, a razory sheen, all the childhoods that were lost or stolen or seized or buried to model catacombs and secret lairs, are returning to the surface bigtime, the reclaimants growing new teeth and … Continue reading →

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Song of Hope

Posted on August 30, 2019 by John Biscello

They kill poets in these parts don’t they? When I got here I saw Walt Whitman’s wizened head out back impaled on a stake flies buzzing round its concomitant rot and stench I heard one of the locals say it … Continue reading →

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Gone Again

Posted on August 23, 2019 by John Biscello

Under a sunstreaked tree, rough bark against skin, texture of a stolen kiss— She was touched, and saddened too, that these days it was her ghost who did most of her living for her, amidst the brackish ebb and flow … Continue reading →

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The Mission

Posted on August 23, 2019 by John Biscello

There were places she hadn’t been, wilds within that had escaped her gravely silent stalking. A fuse had been lit. Concentration was required. And stillness. The kind of stillness that would bring her face to face with the deeply unremembered … Continue reading →

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