Tag Archives: tribute

Foam

Posted on July 12, 2018 by John Biscello

Collect her broken bones, her sea-washed cortege, and sentences of charged glimmer, and pay close reverence to where the slow, reedy breath of the pearl steams the shell of its host, and when the time is right, just right, kiss … Continue reading →

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Jack Kerouac

Posted on June 29, 2018 by John Biscello

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 to velocity bop and piggyback rhythms, to applepie windowsill jazz and summerlight porchswings, to … Continue reading →

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Crush

Posted on June 26, 2018 by John Biscello

There was pillowtalk in her eyes, underscored by her mouth’s bated languour; Sundays curled in her lap with feline ease, slow jazz dreams on holiday, whiskered softly between her thighs and pinkest belly; she wanted nothing to do with volume … Continue reading →

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Paris

Posted on May 28, 2018 by John Biscello

I have never been to Paris, and so I must write about my time there, how Hemingway threw the gauntlet at my feet and challenged me to an armwrestling match three times, beating me each and every time, and Hemingway … Continue reading →

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Ocean Song

Posted on May 26, 2018 by John Biscello

If you cut out my tongue I will grow a new one I have done it a dozen times before, if you deign to curse and steal my eyes go right ahead innervision has a long history of citing the … Continue reading →

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Glisten

Posted on May 22, 2018 by John Biscello

It is hard to believe, but after years and years of clawing with bitten nails, and digging with torn palms, in the heart of a stone she found the babybluest wisps of cloud, soft nimbus music, to which she tendered … Continue reading →

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The Source

Posted on May 11, 2018 by John Biscello

Their hearts, registered as infinite beacons, have gone gently and luminously into nights not so good and pitch-black, braving flytrap folds and god-awful rows to soothe, mend and restore the bruised vitals of daughters and sons; they go, infused with … Continue reading →

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Jackson Pollock

Posted on May 7, 2018 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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I Do Not Say

Posted on May 6, 2018 by John Biscello

I do not say I love you, but I notice how your fingers twine and wrap around empty, tracing broken circles in the air when you are nervous. I do not say I love you, but there is a spot … Continue reading →

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