Tag Archives: writing life

Baffling the Sphinx

Posted on August 14, 2022 by John Biscello

The word is my fourth dimension–Clarice Lispector And on the eighth and endless day, where the bottomless hallelujah meets Ouroboros, God created Clarice Lispector. Maybe. Maybe the music of that name was more pure music and vivid living syntax, and … Continue reading →

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Weight of Writing

Posted on December 7, 2020 by John Biscello

A row of teethmarks in the spine of a pencil– Stressing a sentence.

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Inspiration’s Track

Posted on January 21, 2020 by John Biscello

Inspiration is not a matter of chance, or waiting, or a magic spell that demands bated breath and fretted suspension— it is the fact that you pick up a pen, your fingers growing warm and intimate with its weight and … Continue reading →

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Coil

Posted on November 24, 2019 by John Biscello

To caper at the edge, where the seething lyric happens, poetry with slits and fast teeth, where the hours of phenomena are boiled and reduced to a single quivering instant, an umbilical knot of light upon tenderest scraps and coils.

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taoStyling

Posted on October 12, 2018 by John Biscello

Interview in taoStyle, revolving around Taos, New York, the writing life, and my new novel, Nocturne Variations. “Brooklyn, New York born and raised author, poet, playwright and spoken word performance artist, John Biscello, has called Taos home since 2001. The … Continue reading →

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Third to First

Posted on April 12, 2018 by John Biscello

Third person, first, first person, last, it’s time he and I met for real.

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There

Posted on April 12, 2018 by John Biscello

Your soul’s country is much bigger than you think. Find every last you there.

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Juice

Posted on March 29, 2018 by John Biscello

Slow kind of winter, Spring, mainlining taproot juice, hastens light to mold.

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Savor

Posted on March 29, 2018 by John Biscello

It is that mouth, pursed, sentencing savor to burn, to kiss, between lines.

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Snapshot

Posted on March 29, 2018 by John Biscello

(Excerpt from Raking the Dust) Seven years later, reflecting upon an analytical snapshot held up to the light: Thirty-three, unemployed, a boatload of debt, drinking excessively, divorcee, amateur plumber of shit-clogged pipe dreams—when I got my head stuck up my … Continue reading →

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