Tag Archives: the writing life

The Writing Life

Sneak-peek into the process: I always write by hand, with my F-402 ballpoint pn (black ink), in one-subject spiral notebooks, the cheap kind that come in different colors (mostly I go with red, purple and yellow, occasionally blue or black, … Continue reading

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Quill

Within the unbearable lightness of love’s proofed labor, a single feather pen, producing words that sing, traceless, and move worlds to shake and reckon. (Image by Izumi Yokoyama)

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Still Life W/Selfie

(From Houses of a Crystal Muse, Wild Embers Press, December 2019) How I, my ego-fiend-self, craves and wishes and desires to take ultimate credit for the words and poems attaching themselves to their mortal host, John Biscello, thinly grafted to … Continue reading

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Waking Life

“Childhood’s Wake” (from Houses of A Crystal Muse, being released this week) You can feel it in the air, a razory sheen, all the childhoods that were lost or stolen or seized or buried to model catacombs and secret lairs, … Continue reading

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The Smoking Bluebird

In honor of Charles Bukowski on his death-date, March 10th. Bluebird in his heart, caught in the cross-hairs of vice– Fuck pretty, sing life.

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Radio Ga-Ga

Radio interview on Cultural Energy, revolving around Nocturne Variations, the writing life, youth, Taos, Brooklyn, and other assorted ramblings. (Show is listed as a link under December programs).

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Hunger Strike

She wrote as if webbed viscous bits of her soul got stuck to the words and so you got to feel the raw organic matter of her dreamlife and lush panting inner delicately charred the sort of hunger that cannot … Continue reading

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Born in Translation

I sometimes think of writing as the vocational practice of learning to translate, with accuracy of spirit, the parts of me, unrecognized, unseen, unsigned, that echo from an intimately faraway hollow of interior space.  

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Reckoning

I realized that there may never come a reckoning that equated to a clean or true do-over. And what was it I wanted to break from? Was it the past, was it a worn and outdated mode of self that … Continue reading

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Grandmother

   She was short, a spud of a woman, who in the summer looked like an overbaked potato.    Her hair was a mushroom-cap, a helmet-poof petrified by copious amounts of Aqua Net hairspray. My grandmother was sweet, exceptionally sensitive, … Continue reading

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