Tag Archives: writing life

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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Meeting D.J.

Posted on March 28, 2018 by John Biscello

(Excerpt from Raking the Dust) I see you decided to join me. I didn’t want you to drink alone. We sat at an empty table flanking the wall. The band was now playing a mournful ballad.  Something about two lovers … Continue reading →

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Jean Rhys at Twilight

Posted on March 21, 2018 by John Biscello

Nutrition fact: Did you know that windows like to eat writers who diet on silence and dust-motes, they swallow the writers whole, or in fragments, devouring them slowly, ever so slowly, until all that remains is a ghost, where a … Continue reading →

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Jean Rhys

Posted on March 19, 2018 by John Biscello

Large cats stalk authors, same as authors prey to fast– Hunger, in plain sight.

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Riot’s Rake

Posted on March 17, 2018 by John Biscello

Grateful for Ashleigh Grycner’s review of Raking the Dust, which appears in the latest installment of Riot Material, and coincides with RTD’s April 3rd relaunch. Raking the Dust, John Biscello’s masterful second novel, is first and foremost a novel about second … Continue reading →

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Word

Posted on March 2, 2018 by John Biscello

Not burning, not siege, not flood, not cold front, not atomic scourge, can destroy the Word, a lasting first, and inviolable measure, voiced to raise itself eternally anew.

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