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Tag Archives: words
Reel
It’s like watching a movie. In which you deeply and passionately relate to the main character, who has been wronged. You feel angry, vindictive, vengeful. You want to lash out at the antagonist who has wronged him. Then you pull … Continue reading
Posted in photography, Poetry, Prose
Tagged consciousness, dreams, film, in the dark, movie, Prose, reel, words
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Honeymoon Killer
Ralph Kramden sweats and sweats, eyeballs bulging in their sockets. Plagued by the accursed notion that he has become a whale, no, a rhinoceros, no, an inoculated hippo that shows up to birthday parties uninvited. This visual grotesquerie, reflected back … Continue reading
Posted in photography, Poetry, Prose
Tagged 1950s, art carney, Benhonhurst, Brooklyn, ed norton, fiction, jackie gleason, Literary, Prose, ralph kramden, sitcom, tv, words
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Dust in the Wind
A musician named Sam introduced me to Ask the Dust when I was in my early twenties. It was exactly the book I needed at the time. Sam had heard me read at the Vault, a house-based, performance space in … Continue reading
Posted in Books, Poetry, Prose
Tagged arturo bandini, ask the dust, black sparrow, craft, fiction, inspiration, Italian-American, john fante, story, thank you, tribute, words
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Veils
Invention was your solitude and twin, wasn’t it, Miss Nin? The calculated manner in which you spread secret pages, like silk violet capes or fringed shawls, promising an air of mystery and desire. You enabled the cause of symmetry, so … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Prose
Tagged anais nin, cities of the interior, diary, france, labyrinths, Literary, paris, Poetry, Prose, travel, woman on fire, words, writer
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Fante and Bandini
Inferiority might have been your first memory. Though you were born on American soil, stubbornly planted there, the chinked chains of immigration clanked and rattled, Marley-style, tightening around your throat, as you butted your head against the scabby base of … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Prose
Tagged 1930s los angeles, arturo bandini, ask the dust, bunker hill, Italian-American, john fante, la writer, novel, Poetry, Prose, words
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The Sorceress
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
Posted in photography, Poetry
Tagged female fire, holy holy, poem, Poetry, sorceress, Sylvia Plath, text, tribute, words
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Out of Silence
Beckett spoke about it: the inability to keep quiet. The inability to not say stories, to not make stories, to not find oneself shaped according to stories fitted to shifting forms. Beckett, with gallows irony, talked plenty about silences. He … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Prose
Tagged creation, death, fiction, language, loud within, Masks, samuel beckett, silence, story, voices, words
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John Fante
John Fante splashed vinegar into the eyes of the world. The vinegar was house-made, from his mama’s trusty cupboard. Mama’s cupboard contained a lot, an old-world apothecary glutted with cloves of garlic, deceit, shame, bones, crucifixes, oregano, thyme, rosary beads, … Continue reading
Posted in photography, Poetry, Prose
Tagged arturo bandini, ask the dust, homage, john fante, Literary, novels, Prose, words
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Welcome to the Monkey House
A man rattling the bars inside his cage that is the monkey house of writing and publishing, or, the holy seethe sounded in diminished chords and vinegar.
Posted in Audio, Cinema, photography, Poetry, Prose, Video
Tagged New York, publishing, Spoken Word, story, tale, voice, words, writing life, writing the good write
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Cowpunk at the Purgatory Corral
Excerpt from my novel, None So Distant: We are out here on all fours panting in the sun the bleary merciless maraschino sun burning us. It has been a long while one of those spells that feels foreverish out here … Continue reading
Posted in Books, photography, Poetry, Prose
Tagged badlands, burning, cowpunk, excerpt, high desert, into the mystic, music, novel, photo, Poetry, Prose, purgatory, words
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John Biscello 