Tag Archives: Prose

Cinema, the Sequel

Posted on June 27, 2024 by John Biscello

In the cinema, hypnotized, I died a drugged and stupefied death, again and again, crucified by the diminished returns of flickering images. I die, tranquilized, a sweetly solemn refugee from reality. This is the escapist way, its creed. Why pretend … Continue reading →

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Cinema

Posted on June 27, 2024 by John Biscello

If cinema is a tomb, then let us die watching. The angel over my shoulder is hunched, opaque, morphing. None of us ever leave behind the darkened theater. We are here, always. Sanctuary, haven, enclave, respite, sitting tight and homey … Continue reading →

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How Tomorrow Moves

Posted on June 25, 2024 by John Biscello

Or, Brooklyn Boys Shit-Talkin on Street-Corners Back in the Day.

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Monkeys and Barrels

Posted on June 23, 2024 by John Biscello

Kinked reflections on the writing life, New York states of mind, Babe Ruth’s prodigious appetite, Einsteinian time-blips, desert blues, and the Aqua Net generation.

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Notes in Passing

Posted on February 28, 2024 by John Biscello

The old man in the blue hat, short-sleeve white shirt, gray pants, blue sneakers, seated on a canvas folding chair staked on a plot of grass, the old man’s elected vantage point from which to enjoy his beer and watch … Continue reading →

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Melodrama

Posted on February 22, 2024 by John Biscello

Let’s start with this photo, the comic melodrama in which you, perfectly staged, are wearing a blue pinafore dress, your dark hair gagged in pigtails, mouth heavily lipsticked, cheeks cherubically rouged, your eyes two flashing ovals of abyss-pooling licorice, sweat … Continue reading →

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Blue

Posted on February 22, 2024 by John Biscello

I knew this. Even before I met her, I knew this. But she, as an explicit confirmation, as a caretaker and symbiotic mouthpiece to my unsaid secrets, said, and so concisely—Dreams come out of the blue, returning to the blue. … Continue reading →

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Play

Posted on February 22, 2024 by John Biscello

I have to imagine her death from every conceivable angle. She has assured me she will disappear, said that dying is a trick of the light, and everyone was enamored of the mirage, convinced, in on it, the gag. When … Continue reading →

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In the Dark

Posted on February 22, 2024 by John Biscello

If cinema is a tomb, then let us die watching. The angel over my shoulder is hunched, opaque, morphing. None of us ever leave behind the dark of the theater.  We are here, always. Sanctuary, haven, enclave, respite, sitting tight … Continue reading →

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Pandora

Posted on February 21, 2024 by John Biscello

I won’t call this a book because no one reads books anymore, no one gives two shits and a dime about books. I’ll call this an exalted and long overdue mania, a catalytic inversion, a freebase purge. Whatever, whatever. Voyeurs … Continue reading →

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