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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.

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.
Don’t buy one.
You don’t make obscene gestures while talking to clients on the phone.
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.

Poem by Jade Blackmore – Poetry Reading, East Village, 1990 September 18, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, Jade Blackmore, New York, poems, romantic poems, romantic poetry, Veteran Poets.
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He dreamed of long legs,
intertwined with his.
A Cherokee priestess
in fringed suede,
fresh from the hide,
so fresh it still dripped blood.
And he wished for big brown eyes.
He dreamed of a madwoman
He dreamed too hard.

She read a poem
about the desert,
about skin and chains
and hookah pipes.
He stood in the back of the room
in cowboys boots.
He wore a stone amulet
on a chain around his neck.
She wore skull and hatchet earrings.
He wouldn’t have looked twice
if he’d seen her on the street.
He sees her clearly in a smoke-filled room
with the crash of beer bottles.
She smiled like an ingenue
but wrote like a white witch.
He fancied himself a writer
but her words made her feel like a dilettante.
His eyes made her feel
like a long-limbed Vogue model,
but his aura,
all black from hair to boots,
like a misfit with a ponytail
in the third grade,
and he was the cutest boy on the playground.

He touched her wrist,
as she put her poems into her backpack.
“You’re a witch,” he said.
His amulet brushed across her wrist vein.
“And you’re a shaman”, she said.

He bought her peppermint tea,
and she taught him about madwomen of the 18th century,
and he taught her about imitating Kerouac in the south of England.
They walked to her apartment above the biker bar
to consummate a beautiful lie.

A scattered night
transforming  mortals into magic, and
then back again.






Poem – Single Room Occupancy on 86th Street (1992) by Jade Blackmore May 28, 2018

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, city poems, Jade Blackmore, New York, Veteran Poets.
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The exclusive address would make people jealous
If they saw it on an envelope
And never actually visited me.
I could walk to Central Park or the Metropolitan Museum
But three people could barely fit in my room.

Every week, I went downstairs to Beethoven Pianos on the first floor and paid the store manager my rent in cash.
Another tenant, a cute blonde boy with a limp
Always hung out in the showroom.
We’d get Pepsi together from the soda machine
And dawdle by the pianos till a customer walked in.

The Grande Dame of the SRO, an artist who lived in the room next-door to me, always wore pastel maxi-dresses and walked around the hall followed by her cat.
She’d been there six years.
She was between apartments waiting for an inheritance, she said.

I’d eat fishcakes and spaghetti on Friday
At the diner next door, and
Listen to the tubby telemarketing pros
Discuss their prospects

Tourists from Germany,
Students on summer internships,
and party kids
Slammed doors
And padded in and out of the shared bathrooms
In slippers or rubber sandals,
Faces blurred,
Suitcases bumping down stairs
Every month or two.

I walked down Lexington with a Black and white TV in a box
Hailed a cab in the rain,
And reconfigured the TV in a bigger box,
With clothes stuffed in a dresser and in the drawers under a twin bed,
Half the floor crowded with a computer, printer and answering machine.

I’d wash my hair in the sink in the morning.
The window open to the courtyard,
birds chirping, cabs honking, children playing,
Then scurry downstairs
and buy a bagel and coffee from a cart on the street.
I’d start breakfast on the subway to midtown
and finish it at my desk.

Fell asleep with the Boombox turned low
after exploring Manhattan after dark
With friends.
Woke up and did it over again.

No snotty roommates,
Or screwed-up boyfriends.
No upstairs neighbors throwing used kitty litter out the window.
Sometimes freedom is better than space.









Poem by Jade Blackmore – What Happened in Hollywood in the 1990s January 28, 2018

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, poems, poetry.
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What Happened in Hollywood in the 1990s

She was an artist from Silverlake
When I had pizza with her at the Rainbow.
A slight, unassuming girl,
With black hair and bangs.
She gave me her business card.
And talked about how hard it was
To be a single Mom in LA.

Maybe, I said, it would be easier for her
If she moved somewhere cheaper, less
Inhabited by drugs and weirdos.
She cut dinner short because it was almost time
For the babysitter to leave.
We hugged and I promised her I’d stop by
And buy a painting someday,
But I never did.

Five years later, a street tough
Female, and poised to brawl,
Flaunts tattooed arms in a jeans vest.
She hangs out with a terminally insane rich girl,
Trying out
Pills, booze and
Pretend Sapphic sex
For the benefit of some alternative icon
Who barely noticed their existence.

When they found the woman
In bed
There was no note,
Just the presumption of an accident.
The name of the young Mom, now gone, was printed in the paper.
It looked familiar
So I grabbed the business card the girl
At the Rainbow had given me.
The name matched, but everything else had changed.

Poems by B.Z. Niditch – In Manhattan 1990 and New York City 1999 May 8, 2016

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, BZ Niditch, city poems, New York, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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Andy Warhol
a passion to the lost,
I’m on a sleeper car
the ex-camera rolls
for we underground Beats
are giving our readings
on street corners,
with a lost Anna Karina photo
when married to Godard
we find at the Chelsea,
I buy a lunch poem
from Frank O’Hara
at the Cedar Bar,
here is
cheap vodka in draws
as time lapses
in my synapses
of taboo tripping,
after Andy demanded
to be electrically shaved
for the boy next door
carrying an imbibed state
for an extra in “Flesh”
needing a prescription
for a drug free America
losing a nude display
of Gordon Parks’ sequences
after getting the “Shaft”
on the way meeting Lana
a transvestite
who asked me for a light
and turned herself into
a bulbous yet
nosey chaperon
asking me to do
her laundry
of lace aprons,slips,dresses
of silk, Egyptian cotton,
and chancy things
drifting in the wash
in bathed bleach
of celestial swimsuits
from Esther Williams’
Technicolor sets
swirling shirts and blouses
lifted things from Macy’s
from a drawn basket
in shiny scents of lystoil.



With the romantic
here in the French
once again
playing jazz
to a melody of Mahler
and Rameau
before a French mirror
doubled up
for Mallarme,
the wind
has Paris icicles
for us
in the restaurant
we murder croissants
by the portmanteau movies
of Spanish refugees
seeing bridal angels
of Chagall and Picasso
of our passing.



B.Z. NIDITCH is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher.

His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including:    Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and ArtThe Literary ReviewDenver QuarterlyHawaii ReviewLe Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism InternationalJejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest);  Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others.

He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.

Poem – We 90’s Poets by B.Z. Niditch September 20, 2015

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, Boston, BZ Niditch, poems, poetry.
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by B.Z. Niditch

 Over Beacon Hill
in a sheltered lawn
on the Esplanade
it was a September day
as we 90’s poets
passed seeing show dogs
by hydrants
under a lantern’s rain
on our way
to speak for peace
by red cornices
on the Boston Common
of my student days
as we recall back
my perpetual adolescence
a marathon passes by
the Charles River
over mythic Longfellow Bridge
by an increase of first light
as oak acorns fall
we emerge strengthened
by the underground.
B.Z. NIDITCH is a poet, playwright, and fiction writer. His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii Review; Le Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Hungary); Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others. His latest poetry collections are “Lorca at Seville” and “Captive Cities.” He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.

His new poetry collection Everything,Everywhere is available at Amazon.com.

Poem – The Art of Sin December 31, 2014

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, romantic poems, Veteran Poets.
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The Art of Sin

Impervious to judgement,
You move in
To pleasure me,
Uncannily knowledgeable
In the art of sin –
And you’re mine alone
With only my body to practice on.
Your hands ignite
Hidden molecules.
The fabric of your shirt
Underneath my nails,
So familiar
As I slide fingers
Against bare skin.
Your tongue wanders,
The inferno permanent,
Sealing us into
A cocoon of
Immortal delight.


Copyright 1993, 2004 Jade Blackmore

Rock ‘N’ Roll September 12, 2014

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, Jade Blackmore, Veteran Poets.
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As you can tell from the musical references, this poem was written in 1998.

Rock ‘N’ Roll

 God bless Michael Stipe, Sarah McLachlan, and Jewel.
I want to hug them all and take ’em out for a macrobiotic dinner.
But once in awhile, baby,
I want
loud guitars and leather pants,
a lead singer you can lust for,
with a dominatrix in the background,
blood flowing through the veins,
not ice water or Kool Aid.
Remember how it feels
not to think so hard,
to be so, so WRONG
that you come just from listening.
Remember what it’s like
to crackle along nerve endings,
to be gloriously and blatantly alive.

Copyright 1998, 2004 Jade Blackmore

Midlife Crisis September 7, 2014

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, Veteran Poets.
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Midlife Crisis

Remember the girl writhing in blood capsules in front of the Seventh Veil?” I say.
“Remember her? I lived with her for six months,” you say.
“Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,” the plaque on the Frolic Room door says.
You buy me a tequila sunrise without cash-your credit is good and the bartender wants to suck up to you now that money’s made you respectable. He’s conveniently forgotten the night he kicked you and your best friend in the alley with Hefty bags full of Budweiser cans. I ask you why you hate women so much. You say, “You should know. You’ve been one all your life.” You ask me why I dress like your androgynous twin, straight up and down in black leather. You recite my life back to me/ backwards/forwards/inside out. You see every inch of blood slide through my veins. You know where I bummed cigarette after cutting class. I know what you looked like in your freshman yearbook picture, sleepy-eyed from Quaaludes, a faint trickle of fuzz on your freckled chin. We lived on the same block for three years and never spoke to each other. An hour and three drinks ago, my ex-boyfriend introduced us.
“I’m glad you weren’t around for breakfasts at the Denny’s on Sunset with a frog-voiced DJ,” I say.
But you took orders from the same rust-specked man who tore my heart out through my vagina. The irony.
“I tried to slash my wrists with a toenail clipper once, just to do it,” I say. You point to a vicious cross embedded in your wrist (not the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.)
“I didn’t try. I did it. With a razor.”
My funny valentine with a “stay up all night drinkin'” voice.
What family tree sprouted this convoluted branch,
a redneck accent,
the counterpoint to your contemptuous intellect,
“Who are you mad at,” I ask.
“Bitches who bait me with stupid questions,” you say, and you’re not joking.
You swing your keys in front of eyes like a hypnotist’s pocket watch.
“You know where your first apartment was,”
“I live across the street. Third building from the park-ain’t that a coincidence?”
I’m still flesh and blood,
denying the shark’s teeth below the gangplank.
I can protect my body from disease,
but not my mind, not with this man.
Third building from the park-
“Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”

Copyright 1990, 2005 Jade Blackmore