Tag Archives: Prose

Our Lady of Dust

Posted on November 21, 2022 by John Biscello

They taught us dust. Those were our lessons. There were other lessons but allegedly none more important than the lessons in dust the sermons. We dreamed dust. We ate dust. There was dust favoring the sunlight insisting upon the rotting … Continue reading →

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Breathing Lessons

Posted on November 21, 2022 by John Biscello

In school they taught us how to breathe differently. There were other lessons but this was considered the most important one. We had to learn a new way of breathing. Techniques, exercises: what to do, what not to do. They … Continue reading →

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Bath

Posted on November 18, 2022 by John Biscello

Our destinies are molecular, uniformly bonded, an immaculately charged cluster fuck of singing particles wedded to a liminal bubble bath … that is the beginning … we are not alone. We see god drop the soap, intentionally, perhaps the precursor … Continue reading →

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Storytellers

Posted on November 18, 2022 by John Biscello

Storytellers of different ilks different beats different leaks of internal graffiti yet the word always at the heart of it barrowing out into light what comes from shadowlands within. Stories within earshot as eavesdropped whispers Stories like moonshots catapulted with … Continue reading →

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Every Always

Posted on November 17, 2022 by John Biscello

So, to example: There was a tramp both in and out of time, an iconic tramp who is now and always, he is not old never old, not new never new, he is ever and now and always this tramp … Continue reading →

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Prints

Posted on November 17, 2022 by John Biscello

We slip through our own fingers in bluest forget-me-nots, and keep on slipping wondering where the falling leads. Artwork by Chua Ek Kay

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Time Enough At Last

Posted on November 17, 2022 by John Biscello

Time, the sound of time racing through our ears, slipping past us, children’s bicycles the sound of brrrrrringgg brrrrrringggg, bells on bicycles brrrrrringgging, and the children become more or less old then more or less dead and we hold funerals … Continue reading →

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Walk This Way

Posted on November 17, 2022 by John Biscello

There is the future. There is other future when tramps ambling shuffle-footed across failed roads, across dust-pecked destinies, along citywalks imitating lizard-toed pigeons, tramps with newspaper hats and brown bag hearts billowing and contracting and reeking of long past lunchrooms, … Continue reading →

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In Our Solitude

Posted on November 17, 2022 by John Biscello

Near to the bones of warming solitude. Within vagrancy’s timelocked spells we wander you could say we are wanderstruck. Modes of lyrical living allows us to bask in living alone in the company of words stories voices. For them we … Continue reading →

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Company of Echoes

Posted on November 17, 2022 by John Biscello

Near to the bones of warming solitude we wildly graze. We are out here in this place where our vagrancies are enabled by the mass grace of words stories voices that roots us home. At home with solitude we are … Continue reading →

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