Tag Archives: writer’s life

Jack Kerouac

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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Unwrit

I fall in love too easy with phantoms and projections, spectral imprints that pool twilight in their arms for a living. Where people are not, I find myself digging and searching, clawing profusely at beautiful stones until my nails are … Continue reading

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Broken Land

The new edition of my first novel, Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, is now available for preorder (Unsolicited Press), in anticipation of its official relaunch. ABOUT: A spectral, existential noir set against the aging irons of Coney Island and old guard lions … Continue reading

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Recording Live

To abide, faithfully, the recording angel on my shoulder, to dream, trebled, with eyes and ears open, glass pressed against the thin, plasmic veil separating one world from the next, a straddler and eavesdropper, since Childhood, on behalf of a … Continue reading

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Still Life w/ Selfie

  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 his signature and persona, but deep down I understand all … Continue reading

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Lisp

Writing, some kind of lisp, and stutter, to chance God’s breath, as your own, to cherish.

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Intraverse

(Intraverse, Epitaph for a Beginning is a 24-part poem, which will be included in my collection Arclight. I wanted to present it here, uncut, for those who enjoy swallowing their jagged metaphysical fragments whole.) 1. Bidden by tatters, and gravity’s mutable … Continue reading

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Jean Rhys

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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Anais Nin

Invention was your solitude, your twin, wasn’t it, Miss Nin? The way you spread secret pages like silk violet capes, like fringed shawls, over an air of mystery, and err of desire. You enabled symmetry, to confess. Why couldn’t a … Continue reading

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Henry Miller

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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