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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.
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.

Poems by Jack Henry – Saint Thomas Aquinas and ex November 19, 2020

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Saint Thomas Aquinas

the old poet sits under a dying tree
in a park near a crumbling church
as people gather for midday mass.

a dyslexic sun spins in disambiguation.
two men kiss as a breeze begins
to drift through branches and leaves.

the old poet awaits contradiction, as words
fall from the corner of his eyes and
children scream in delight,
for the ice cream man.

a police officer walks by, says hello, and pauses
briefly, asking the old poet about his day,
and any plans for the weekend.

the old poet does not speak, lost in transition,
from one point of contact to the next.
there is no connection only the unending buzz
of a phone call not answered.


out from broken
fractured memories
of a past
best left
to rot
in a
i locked
them in,

so many


Jack Henry is a poet and chapbook publisher. His poetry journal is Heroinlovesongs.com. His work has been published in Clockwise Cat, Poetry Warrior, Oak Bend Review, Rusty Truck, and other online and print zines.

R.I.P. Diane Di Prima (August 6, 1934-October 25, 2020) October 26, 2020

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Three Poems by Stephen Mead – Lounging, True Stories and It Goes On (Thanks to Morrisey) September 7, 2020

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It feels sort of like the 1940s, the bed
a playground, fingers in platinum,
Bonbons, chiffon, the swell walled
in sensations of large lace draped rooms…

Here I am, smoking jacket svelte
& with little to do but resample champagne
or sway, barely listening to a distant trombone.

Ah, how nice, an idle nap time, yet
less innocent, say, should a lover chime
out of the music box, an apparition
waited for when any one could fade,

sad, lazy star hanging around
in the meantime because

these movie scenes lie.

 True Stories

Her eyes were the last link to communication:
one blink, no; two; yes;
the face muscle tone startled to a freeze.

To lose control like this is
perhaps worse than drowning or dying by fire:
the spirit, a bird
windows seal in …

Final rights:
exercise power,
support systems off,
lay back to melt
as ice,
as an ice cube.

It is true:
these things happen,
become stories so
we are able to talk again
about what survival means.

It Goes On
(Thanks to Morrisey)

I know the story & so do you.
I think that’s the problem.
knowledge helping, but how much?
Was being in the dark better?
Hardly; just some question,
a series of them, all to be settled.
Undecided still?
Then how come,
when aware of both
the taken and untaken roads?
So I trip over Frost
the way tongues who have tripped
over each other yet long
to taste that particular spit
on lips since replaced.
What’s the difference?
I told you it was an old story.
So, come, join in this circle
& touch while
I try to
(that’s better)
mend what only
(now there)
touch can break.


Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer.  Since the 1990s he’s been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online.  He is also grateful to have managed to keep various day jobs for the Health Insurance. Currently he is resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, The Chroma Museum  

Stephen’s Website
Amazon page

Poem by Jade Blackmore – The Mansion of Happiness September 5, 2020

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The Mansion of Happiness

You can get there
from here.
This midnight blue delicacy, this quest, forges on
through cyclones and static skies.
No one can predict the end point
the uncashed check, the mystery in triplicate.
A diamond-edged toothbrush scattered in bits by the mirror,
a lost vampire, a false thesis.
A search for the last unscathed nostril in Studio 54 yields
a cryogenically frozen orgy
with no trace of orgasm,
only the stench of monotony.

Years elapse like pine needles
dropping off the Christmas tree on January 3rd.
The condensation on the basement windows,
the push-pull called chance
alienates both strippers and scientists.
it doesn’t discriminate.

The sweet harmony,
the violin echo makes it all worthwhile,
It softens the sting of suffering,
and then erases the plague.

Skyscrapers abandoned,
Karma taps mother earth,
and reverts to the mansion of happiness.
Newly kilned claypots.
Simple stone and mud,
The freedom to start over.

Poems by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- Lightning Flash and No Need (The King of the Streets) April 29, 2020

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Drawing by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal


I see you in people I knew,
like a flash of lightning,
come and gone. I know you
are your own person, but
as frame of reference it is
not uncommon to make
comparisons. You have a
look in your face when I talk
and I can sense disappointment.
I know it will soon be over.
I have gone through this before.
There are no hard feelings.
I am accustomed to lightning
and how it shines and disappears.


As long as I have
a heartbeat
I will not ever
feel poor. At
night I make a home
in a park.
Food is all around.
I take from
the kind hearted.
Sometimes it’s
just around, on
trees, in trash
bins, almost fresh.
For movies
I watch the stars,
the people,
or the tall trees.
For music
I hear the birds,
crickets, and
cars zooming past.
For books I
have no need. I
read the clouds,
lips, newspapers
left behind.
I still dream. When
I become so
absorbed in
my dreams, I find
just enough
to get me through
the day. I
do not feel poor.
I am the
king of the streets.
There is no
need for a crown
or golden
robe. I keep still
when I feel
tired. If it rains,
I find a
bridge for shelter.
Do not feel
sad about me

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

Still I Rise by Maya Angelou April 12, 2020

Posted by vscorpiozine in poems, poetry, poetry readings, Uncategorized.
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