Tag Archives: Prose

If Only in Burning

Posted on January 14, 2021 by John Biscello

   I saw the sign in the window: Lessons Learned/Karma Burned. I went inside. The studio smelled like frankincence. And cotton candy. Greeting me at the door, as if she had been waiting for me, was a tall, well-toned woman … Continue reading →

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Blue Boy

Posted on January 14, 2021 by John Biscello

   There’s something wrong with him, my father said. Look at him. Something’s not right. Something happened to him. He’s sick. All he thinks about is writing. That’s all he thinks about. He is blue.    Even though I wasn’t … Continue reading →

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Death Rides In On A Pony

Posted on December 29, 2020 by John Biscello

When Death showed up on a broken-down pony, I scoffed. This, really? What, Death said, looking around, unsure as to who or what I was referring. You’re Death, right? Yes. THE Death? You can check my I.D. And you’ve come … Continue reading →

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Alchemical Cahoots

Posted on December 24, 2020 by John Biscello

There are, the wizard explained, contracts with the invisible world. There are binding contracts. And ones that can be dissolved. How can I tell the difference between one and another? Listen. Listen for what? Listen. For? Listen for listening. Listen … Continue reading →

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As Fate Would Have It

Posted on November 30, 2020 by John Biscello

“Fate will have it—and this has always been the case with me—that all the ‘outer’ aspects of my life should be accidental. Only what is interior has proved to have substance and a determining value.” — Carl Jung He knew … Continue reading →

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Breaking the Mold

Posted on November 30, 2020 by John Biscello

“All that matters now is the ‘deep inner serenity for the sake of creation.’ Though whether I shall ever ‘create’ is something I can’t really tell. But I do believe that it is possible to create, even without ever writing … Continue reading →

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Small World Stuff

Posted on November 30, 2020 by John Biscello

“So let this be the aim of the meditation: to turn one’s innermost being into a vast, empty plain, with none of the treacherous undergrowth to impede the view. So that something of ‘God’ can enter you, and something of … Continue reading →

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Illuminations

Posted on November 19, 2020 by John Biscello

“You know of course that slowness is the only illumination I’ve ever had.” — Peter Handke, The Afternoon of a Writer A writer, fastening his worth to the tempo of grass, to the yellow leaves separating their grief from their … Continue reading →

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What Was It You Said?

Posted on November 19, 2020 by John Biscello

“Distraction is the only thing that consoles us for our miseries and yet it is, itself, the greatest of our miseries.” — Blaise Pascal Oh, distraction, you paradoxical bastard– Sky laughs, stays open.

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A Thousand Women

Posted on November 16, 2020 by John Biscello

“I am not indifferent to the greater dramas hanging over us, but drama is everywhere the same, microcosm or macrocosm. It is not my destiny to live the drama of Spain, war, death, agony, hunger. It is my destiny to … Continue reading →

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