Tag Archives: Poetry

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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Want Ad

Posted on August 22, 2019 by John Biscello

After one year, one month, and two days, what she called her unsentimental education, she understood the city to be both a cryptic boneyard and high-rise projection which excluded her from any real contact. God, how she loved holding it … Continue reading →

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Welcome to the Terrordome

Posted on August 22, 2019 by John Biscello

She remembered how her friend used to say fear was an acronym for False Evidence Appearing Real. Another one she had come across— Fuck Everything and Run. She was, at present, beyond the scope and warrant of both acronyms. Real … Continue reading →

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Gusty Winds May Exist

Posted on August 14, 2019 by John Biscello

Gusty Winds May Exist. This was the sign I saw on the highway when driving back from Albuquerque. Gusty Winds May Exist. Which, speculatively insinuates, they may also not exist. A climate conundrum and barometric riddle to challenge everything you thought you knew about … Continue reading →

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Under Pressure

Posted on August 8, 2019 by John Biscello

As the steps narrowed toward a terrible totemic infinity she realized that foreboding hailed from a gothic lineage backlit by a fathomless source.   (Photo by Cindy Sherman)

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