Tag Archives: Prose

Because I Dreamed

Posted on September 10, 2025 by John Biscello

I never say the babies’ names, because there is danger in that. I know that their names spoken, details given, things brought too much into the light, means we can be found. Their ears own so much: text, air, radio-waves, … Continue reading →

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Fins

Posted on September 9, 2025 by John Biscello

The men I have given myself to are scorching a map onto my skin. I’d say it was a map of the underworld, but I don’t know if that’s altogether true. It seems too dramatic, too much like fantasy. And … Continue reading →

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Fable

Posted on September 8, 2025 by John Biscello

I have become moonless in my grief, a paled comparison. But to what? To who I used to be? What I expected to become? I feel as if I’ve been laid out an operating table, and Time, as a methodically … Continue reading →

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Clip

Posted on September 8, 2025 by John Biscello

In the short film released by the Civil Defense Department, a cheery reporter talks about the mannequins representing Mr. and Mrs. America. When the time for detonation comes, she, along with countless others, will gather six miles from Ground Zero, … Continue reading →

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Match

Posted on September 8, 2025 by John Biscello

In one of the Doomstown houses, scheduled to be destroyed by nuclear blast on May 5th, 1955, two mannequin women are lying in bed together. Who arranged these women? Who played matchmaker, and according to what script? Was this the … Continue reading →

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Godot in Vegas

Posted on September 8, 2025 by John Biscello

This just in: No one is waiting for Godot anymore. No one has the time or interest. Plus, no one knows who he, or Samuel Beckett is. The wastelands are even dryer, tubercular in their plot and scrape, and presently … Continue reading →

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Television Ghost

Posted on September 8, 2025 by John Biscello

The Television Ghost, considered one of TV’s first dramatic series (1931-1933), belongs to the spectral repository of lost media. Since television technology was in its infancy, the transmission projected a single static image—that of the “Ghost” draped in a white … Continue reading →

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Less Said

Posted on September 7, 2025 by John Biscello

I have no desire to sing tonight. This is the only line Samuel Beckett managed to write for a libretto which he abandoned. The smallest hours hold staggering volumes of silence.

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Night

Posted on September 7, 2025 by John Biscello

At night I go out, scorched and empty. I pool inside myself all day, every day, a sipping and flooding, and then I carry this out with me into the night. There is a hissing that I can hear out … Continue reading →

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Gazing Strip

Posted on September 5, 2025 by John Biscello

I am Beket, and this is my life, not in so many words, and in so many words. Voices, mirrors, masks. That’s what I barter and traffic in, my raison d’être, as the French would say. There are also long … Continue reading →

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