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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

Recollection and Other Poems by B.Z. Niditch June 3, 2013

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, Veteran Poets.
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St. Marks Place , early 1990s

St. Marks Place , early 1990s – Photo from evgrieve.com

During the month of June, we’re saluting the 1990s zine scene and poems about (or inspired by) musicians, celebrities & other famous folks. Today we’re showcasing 5 poems by B.Z. Niditch, a widely-published poet of the 1990s. His  recent work continues to be featured  in prestigious magazines and on literary websites worldwide.


With our 1990’s hands
reaching out
even rebellious adjectives
are explored
our voices float
on graffiti walls
there is still time
for us poets
to speak out
without props
for our nature, gender
even for trees
when even
the Pacific waves
are unprotected
from our environs
like any physiognomy
and identity
our life needs a green card
for any foreign body
in the exposure
of our animated shelters
from every betrayal
we surrender only
to a compass of language
at every stage
under the pillars
of a rainbow flag
or at an urban read
for we open door poets
scenting no caution
or fear
to live among others
in a free sisterhood,
or on a brother’s sync lips
with a solace of speech,
for all the world’s Beat
dig to survive the earth.


no regrets on Sunset strip
trucking outside
the boxing shadows
of exhausting nights
unwilling to form
an accidental lane
of body parts
in flashed red lights
at a petrified scene
from our seat belt,
glassy and ripped
a Beat Poet
only a passes
by  running invectives
in a thirst
for language
on the steering
wheel of tangled
voice mails
now imprisoned
to answer
words sleep
walking on gaseous
shadows questioning
any empty disillusionment.
of a unfiltered future
in driving us
the fourth hour
with  an elegy’s stick shift
toward intervention
of buried grief on my
long sleeves
on highways of picture
postcard verticals
between    nights and day
where an imaginary
third lane energetic
synergy of almost humans
operates to a percolating
aroma under stars
by a felled holiday week end

on route 66


Rounding these words
in a memory of solitude
we discover a universe
in our graffiti scratches
on a city’s unclenched walls
throbbing with a kid glove
of half speech
unfolding what answers
and renews
in our absences
those thousand voices
in a palette’s drawing
of an indifferent time
forfeiting every exile’s
green identity card
with our prose exhuming
in our alphabet appearances.


Everyone has a pulse
of a chimera’s echo
in a poet’s mirror
like a domino of words
of a Beat’s immunity
interrogates language
passes on unspoken justice
in a captive passport
from a rapture
for our enlightenment
here in the gay 90’s
once again a stupid war
on the pale horizon
but not discouraged
we have not forgotten
the quivers of peace
and love on our flower
children’s breath
here on the waterfront
sprawled on a blanket
balloons are released
the crowds takes hold
of this poet’s words
from San Francisco
to Boston.


After watching
the Almadovar film
with my movie buff buddy
and actor in my one act play
back in Boston
talented Pillar from the Valley
that April night, 1990
feeling unconfined, etherized
from the dark theater,
when Pillar calls me hip
and almost falls
on the sidewalk face
and injures her own hip
wearing red high heels
doing a Marilyn imitation
near the cable cars
in the hills
hoping the harbor lights
along the waterfront
will make us feel a year
younger or sober
hoping for any phone message
or a message on my back
glued to our friendship
as it starts to rain
and we murder
a Spanish cinnamon roll.

BZ Picture 12  B.Z. NIDITCH is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and  teacher. He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.His work has been published in Denver Quarterly, Hawaii Review, Antioch Review, Prism International and Jejune (Czech  Republic),  among others.