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Poem – No Brakes by Jade Blackmore March 2, 2021

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He followed a straight line from
Long, humid Rust Belt weekends
And thunderstorm beatdowns
To a deposit of decay,
A past his prime rendering.

It only took a costume change,
The printed page,
And a few drops of blood-red paint
To separate the genius
From the criminal.

There’s no limit to exploration, the shaman said.
But he was born to find the end point,
A clichéd and public wall,
And crash into it
Like Norma Desmond on acid.  

Poem by Jade Blackmore -Party Night at a West Village Magic Shop, circa 1992 February 7, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, city poems, Jade Blackmore, New York, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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The triangle of city veins
Connive with shadows and sulky corners.
A taxi pulls up to the curb
and a motley trio filters out,
all East Village berets and black overcoats,
clichés made flesh.
Red and blue lights flash from the front window
Of a magic shop,
Bathing the revelers on the building’s front stairs
In a post-apocalyptic light.

Artists and dilettantes scatter on the sidewalk.
They smoke joints and drink vodka from repurposed 7-Up bottles.
A disheveled man wearing sunglasses strums an acoustic guitar. His gruff gargle of a voice punctuates the blended conversations about auditions, art galleries,
and coke-addicted boyfriends.

The night’s honoree gave his regards, but stayed safe and warm in his cushy suburban home.
He sent his sidekick instead, a hyper but amusing misfit with slicked back black hair.
Still, the oblivious horde gathered, armed with red Solo cups and tales of punk rock debauchery
The beret-wearing trio held court with him all night.

After two drinks, they talked dirty to the fortunetelling mannequin in the corner.
After three drinks, they confiscated a set of exploding dice. The fall-out resulted in a toppled book rack.
After four drinks and an impromptu “Cut a lady in half” trick, the owner kicked them out.
Undaunted, the foursome stumbled to Gray’s Papaya for hot dogs and Pineapple whips.
The magic shop never hosted any parties after that.
It’s a vegan restaurant now.

Gerald Locklin, CSULB teacher, writer, poet, dies at 79 January 21, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in Gerald Locklin, poetry, Southern California poets, Veteran Poets.
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Poet Gerald Locklin passed away in Irvine, Ca. on January 17. Locklin’s work was published in over 125 books and broadsides. He wrote a memoir about his friendship with Charles Bukowski called “A Sure Bet”.

Amanda Gorman’s Biden Inauguration Poem January 21, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in poems, poetry, poetry readings.
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Amiri Baraka and Rob Brown – Something in the Way of Things (in Town) January 18, 2021

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Poem by Jade Blackmore – Redux- Talk Show in the ‘90s January 6, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in city poems, poems, poetry.
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Sometimes, she would press random buzzers in the vestibules of apartment buildings.
She went to parties with actors, Goth kids, and her co-workers from the S and M dungeon.
You’d always find her hanging out in a decaying apartment building with other squatters.
They’d watch Gilligan’s Island reruns, drink beer, and smoke pot. She had an affair with a guy who bought smokes at the 7-11 while she shoplifted a bottle of wine.
Eventually, he got her pregnant, and she had the baby. She sent her friends a photo of the newborn, a proud mama,  then dropped out of sight for awhile and retreated back to the old neighborhood.

She shared an apartment with a friend from the third grade.
The baby cried a lot.
After the first few months,
The once-doting Mama disappeared for days at a time,
Skipping out on rent and returning drunk.
The roommate threw her out.
Now the baby Daddy’s Grandma raises him,
and the parents appear
when obligated to do so.

Poem by Jade Blackmore – The Old Poets December 28, 2020

Posted by vscorpiozine in Los Angeles poets, poems, poetry, Uncategorized.
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They all gathered in a basement near the beach. Sunlight covered by brick and photocopies, the pesky blonde surfers sent packing, the scourge of suburbia long gone.    

The reluctant idol in western jeans ducks into his car, but he can’t escape. The parkig lot fence won’t shield him from the aftermath of his chosen profession. Every autograph paves a piece of soul flattened until he can escape incognito to another land . 

Neon-haired old woman
Swathed in black
Yells across the room
Even louder than she did in her heyday,
Oblivious to the background bro calling her an old hag.
Her former partner-in-crime ostracized
For having the wrong opinion.

The woman who raises chickens and grows corn in her back yard
Discusses Bukowski with a slouching, bespectacled poetry professor.
In a previous life he was a long-haired bass player, dropping acid and sharing girls in Golden Gate Park.

The wine disappears from red Solo cups as conversations intensify.
The words of fallen comrades echo in front of scratchy 8 millimeter films.
Self-made local legends, revealed to a select few.
Only those who crack the code understand.
Transference and time fade the intent,
but the spirit remains.

Poems by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal – Two Minutes and Sea Song December 27, 2020

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Two Minutes 

Two minutes waiting
for the bus that is five
minutes late. It is
cold at Four Fifty AM
for someone used
to warmth. The bus is
late again like the other
day when it was windy cold.
I should have worn
thicker socks but I did
not want to be late
looking for them. I feel
like Forest Gump just
waiting for a bus but
without a box of chocolates
and no one around to
tell my tall tales to.

Sea Song 

The moon is foam.
Six stars fall now.
The end is near.
Six stars fall like leaky ships.
The sea eats its songs.
Fish multiply despite it all.
Exhausted, the sea eats lyrics.
The sea is right to consume all.
It sinks boats and
sings along with
its waves and skylike colors.
The sea is all show.

Read a review of Luis’ chapbook Before and Well After Midnight, at Clockwise Cat.

Merry Christmas!! December 23, 2020

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Poem by Jade Blackmore – The Last Decent Man in New York City (1990) December 22, 2020

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, exes, Jade Blackmore, love poems, New York, poems, poetry, Uncategorized.
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The Last Decent Man in New York City

You don’t wear black turtlenecks.
Good.
Don’t buy one.
You don’t make obscene gestures while talking to clients on the phone.
Good.
Don’t start.
Curious words scrawled,
a frazzled New Year’s resolution.
A blend of teddy bear
and hippie charm,
the only man in modern times
to look sincere in a ponytail.
You care about what you do.
I see it in your face,
I read it in your eyes,
blue and gray without the clouds.
My only regret in the toughest city in the world
is that we drifted apart.