Tag Archives: Prose

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 →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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 →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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 →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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 →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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 →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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 →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Station

Posted on February 21, 2024 by John Biscello

Historyless is where I come from, the sun-crotched navel, the part of me not yet born, the part of me dead to the world on its way to being born into the potholes and foothills of unimagined fictions. That, plus … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Andrea Doria

Posted on February 21, 2024 by John Biscello

Itchy navels, persecutions, manias, projections, snot-rimmed abysses, it’s been a mixed bag of plenty and none, and here I sit with the day’s teeth growing long and chomping down with razor-edged intensity … the stringent air of day after days … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Casanova’s Memoirs

Posted on February 21, 2024 by John Biscello

The weevils chewing through the wall and burrowing into the hollows. Rot sets in. Yet I wake up and the sun is a perfect circle, a ball of fire, a kissing fool’s star. I smile. To hell with the weevils. … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Ark

Posted on February 20, 2024 by John Biscello

Semen has flowed. The danger is past. This is an old proverb from a sunken country, a made-up country, a country that no longer exists or never did. This mother country with its many flaring mother tongues and tidals of … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment