Tag Archives: Poetry

Not Nietzche

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

If you gaze long enough into a lighted window at night, eventually the lighted window goes dark. (i.e., Common Sense for Uncommonly Complicated Philosophers Who Hang out at Starbucks and Read Immanuel Kant While Hoping That the Nerdy-Cute Barista Finally … Continue reading →

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Playground

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

In the end, as in the beginning, we shall find that the whole cyclical shebanga was a mischievous riot, a fool’s paradise of child’s play upon fluorescent plasma, or to parrot the enlightened pearls of Mister Voltaire, “God is a … Continue reading →

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Distance

Posted on March 2, 2018 by John Biscello

Fringing the stark shadow of a lucid twig, two fallen leaves court from the distance of metaphor.

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Opaque

Posted on March 2, 2018 by John Biscello

Rebirthing, within fathomless hues, beyond the opaque rim, and vanishing, someone waits to claim your life anew.

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Rumors

Posted on March 2, 2018 by John Biscello

Within the licorice hush and mottle of Dream’s darkening brood, we cede, slowly, to faintest rumors on a paling cusp, to gainly renew.

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Wisp

Posted on March 1, 2018 by John Biscello

Stray leaf, prey to numinous strands of web, Ephemera’s passage, frozen, discreetly, to divine wisp from perish.

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Ssshh!

Posted on March 1, 2018 by John Biscello

Solitary bench, modeling its full silence– lovers secrets, ssshh!

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Bench

Posted on March 1, 2018 by John Biscello

You know the story, the bench, the promise, the waiting, the interminable stretch of waiting, and the love that never returned, as the girl became a woman and then dead. You know the legend, how the woman is still waiting, … Continue reading →

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Haze

Posted on February 28, 2018 by John Biscello

Imperturbable, the necessary golem roots in the cradle where lullabies fan, and hover, as if haze to gently respiring bloom.   (Sculpture by Constantin Brancusi)

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Recoil

Posted on February 28, 2018 by John Biscello

The weddings didn’t come off, for either one. Limbo, reciting their grief, and frozen recoil, held them aloft, sisters annointed by a rogue strain of etheric default.   (Artwork by Linda Stojak)

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