Tag Archives: tribute

Triptych (for Edie Sedgwick)

Posted on December 11, 2022 by John Biscello
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The Last Days of Jack Kerouac

Posted on November 28, 2022 by John Biscello

Cine-poetic audio homage to Jack Kerouac.

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Triptych for Edie Sedgwick

Posted on December 15, 2021 by John Biscello

I.Too many small hourspimped out to wraiths on parade–Heart, in real time, breaks.  II.Make me an offer,they shoot pretty girls, don’t they?Leave haunting to me.  III.Baby, forget the petals,we’ll feed you thorns,you’ll be like Jesus Christin black tights,a superstar in dark eye … Continue reading →

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Sylvia Plath

Posted on December 15, 2021 by John Biscello

To be a mother, and to double as a dark sorceress, a cleaver of dried bones, could not have been easy. Especially in the 1950s. They burned witches then, as well as reds and blacks and faggots, and other things … Continue reading →

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Jean Rhys

Posted on October 19, 2020 by John Biscello

You held the islands in your eyes, where it rained and rained and then the sun warmed wet to a wafting hiss. This Jean, you, the feline slink, filigreed shock, and sinewy comb of whitelaced waves ruffling upon puttied blobs … Continue reading →

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Jackson Pollock

Posted on October 19, 2020 by John Biscello

Out of silence, and lidded smolder, arose a localized storm. You could say it was a balletic squall forecasting its own tyrant reign and fall, a fate designed to galvanize and then blackout not so gently into that goodnight exit … Continue reading →

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Henry Miller

Posted on November 25, 2019 by John Biscello

Some men rattle their chains and wonder, some sing them. Then there are others who spraypaint their chains rainbow siege and dance a jig like a peacock on fire, and when someone asks Isn’t it hard to dance around with … Continue reading →

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Anne Sexton

Posted on November 24, 2019 by John Biscello

It begins with a stopwatch, and a glass of water. The stopwatch belonged to her father, or to her father’s father. The glass of water is a joke. Imagine trying to remedy all that desert within, all that scabbing red … Continue reading →

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John Fante

Posted on November 24, 2019 by John Biscello

Inferiority might have been your first memory. Though you were born on American soil, Denver, CO, April 8th, 1909, the chinked chains of immigration had you by the throat and bowels, pinched your nerves as you butted your head against … Continue reading →

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October’s Bones

Posted on October 21, 2019 by John Biscello

In honor of the 50th anniversary of Jack Kerouac’s “death-day” departure for roads unknown. When I was a young man, a budding scribe eager to blossom white fire, and scabbed lotuses, you meant the world to me. You exposed me … Continue reading →

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