Tag Archives: writing

Beat, Bop & Abstraction

Posted on May 4, 2018 by John Biscello

It took place in an amnesiac haze and fury, numberless nights of lightningspeak and opiate rabble, rocketfuel and anti-freeze, bright slashing ribbons of noise amounting to worry stones indenting the infantpink tender of palms, forecasting God as a vaudeville dunce … Continue reading →

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Benign

Posted on March 26, 2018 by John Biscello

Alighted, to course sweetly toward benign silence– To mend, flowers kiss.   (Watercolor by Henry Miller)    

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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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Ember

Posted on February 19, 2018 by John Biscello

How a writer, cave-timing dark and solitude, annoints an ember by crafting the small hours into a flagrant torch.

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Comeback

Posted on January 28, 2018 by John Biscello

Everything we attempt and seal creatively, every last and first word completed, reigns as beautiful failure, a mortal short-hand and forger’s touching testament to the Source, rounding what dreams may come and fade and come again.      

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Recording Live

Posted on January 19, 2018 by John Biscello

   I understand that I am not only with my father and grandfather and Marie as family, but also as a writer. I am sketching them. The mechanical hand in my mind that never stops is charting and sketching and … Continue reading →

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Wellspring

Posted on January 10, 2018 by John Biscello

Through the grace of repetition, the writing life grounded in the slow, wistful measures of wellspring’s fortune.

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Burn

Posted on January 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Slow burn of words on a page, how to listen raptly between intervals of felt silence and tapped nerves.

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Monster

Posted on January 7, 2018 by John Biscello

Fiction is a monster. It demands, it consumes. It is a glutton. Enough is never enough. It won’t be satisfied until the unreal becomes utterly real, beyond real. Its sole desire is to usurp reality, to surpass it. It basks … Continue reading →

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Night-Thistles

Posted on January 7, 2018 by John Biscello

I could feel the music of a slow future dying inside me. And the past very much alive, like shimmering beatific flowers, like luscious night-thistles. The past is a changeable feast. Except it is a feast that eats and eats … Continue reading →

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