week of October 6 - 12, 2003
Jade Blackmore and Adam Joseph
BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
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Jade Blackmore is a poet, writer and advertising coordinator in Los Angeles. Her work has been published in hundreds of small press zines, consumer magazines and websites. She is currently a self-help columnist for Moondance.org, and also contributes articles about rock music to Suite101.com and RockConfidential.com. Her websites:
The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Jade Blackmore and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Girl in beret,
faces melting into mustard
as bums watch.
sidewalks on fire.
Gunshots scattered by the altar of Mary.
Brownshirts in Beverly Hills
procure shrunken heads in trophy cases.
Temporary poet with two black eyes and Grace Slick's voice courts a millionaire biker.
Dozens of raggy-bearded bikers escort them to his Bel Aire mansion on their wedding day.
Neon red blood coats the parking meters along chic street.
Get spit on riding the bus to Westwood.
See an Indiana schoolgirl's bedtime fantasy butchered in the back of a van in Farmer's Market.
The insiders smell poverty like dogs smelling meat and attack.
Reality pukes up miracles like so much synthesized garbage.
Cocaine high, calypso target.
Angel blonde screaming in bathroom, Laurel Canyon tripping.
Saxophone players from hell
curdle beneath the sewers of Hollywood Boulevard.
providing the city's soundtrack
for a Marlboro
or a bottle of beer.
A dancing minstrel long past his prime.
has a rich ex-cheerleader support him
while he pursues a stale dream.
But the city knows.
Fame is just a freaky old man
gliding down a carpet of vultures.
a note for the doctor taped on her stomach.
with nothing on but the radio,
dyeing her pubic hair for the first time.
everybody's got something in common with
like her mother.
with no make-up
a country bumpkin
in flip-brimmed hat.
someone should have warned her
about jealous Italians.
wired for sound
in the president's bed.,
her consummate body
limp as spongecake
after Bobby left.
the fuzzy end of the lollipop.
the pursued lips.
shivering in sweater in times square subway.
the backalley abortions, the fruitless womb.
running up belltower stairs
in high heels
when the roses stopped coming.
the problem with comets
is that they catch your eye,
so quick and bright against the sky,
every 75 years or so,
a comet tricks you into thinking
it's a permanent fixture
of the solar system.
you look in the sky years later
and expect to see it
flailing past the Big Dipper,
a grandiose peacock of the air.
you remember it that way,
the deep trench that sucks you in
or the unwieldy cinder
that ferments the soil.
My name is Adam Joseph. I reside in San Bernardino, CA; and I am 24 years old.
The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Adam Joseph and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Born Again Auto-Body
drop off the car
simply wait for an estimation
simply wait for instruction upon demand,
for high dollar expense to be taken
as an exchange for apparitions of goods and service.
simply continue to wait
simply make use of loose time,
and the minimalist waiting area,
its two chairs " broken zenith -coffee percolated sixty times over -uninteresting selection of old periodicals
simplicity was not in time' s schedule
only passing slow enough through darkened ages,
enlightened with no troubadour or study of the golden mean,
but churches, monasteries, mosques, and islamic nations yielded all focus on national economic balancing and a welfare reform,
simply wait, now accompanied by my disgust,
not entertained by the dollar bills that inevitably continue to be plucked from my conspicuous consumerism,
in waiting, I somehow invited the company of any available fanatic who was in dire need of helping anybody and everybody find jesus amongst the minimalist backdrop of burnt coffee and suspicious specialty service,
it was a negro who stood hyperactively beside a window,
taking a break from the mental assistance of helping the crew service his jalopy,
that' s when his movements shifted into a gear that pointed in my direction,
" shit!" was my apparent expression, while he had that look,
that twinkle of gospel in his eyes yearning to be forced upon unwilling audiences,
gospel was not alone in his eyes,
noticing the yellow-filmed cataracts that had taken refuge there as well,
he was as negro as the night,
leaning down with a gratuitously sinful touch to my knee,
he whispered me a question,
" have you found christ?"
" I wasn' t aware he was hiding."
shit began hitting any fans that occupied my space and had no mercy,
ball busting rambunctious laughter persisted and
coexisted with sympathetic tears we forcibly wept as a homage to me,
he took several walks to certain imaginary destinations,
upon return quoting matthew, peter, and john
not saint john mind you,
twisting tongues into ultimate knots
almost saved me from his own horrible truth,
continuing to spray jesus and magdelin,
he touched and tapped,
under impressions that my personal space was on a leave of absence,
still negro as the night,
he discovered that my interest was never roused in his continuous game of hide and go seek,
in which he never had the chance to hide,
just infinitely seeking a hider who is never to be found,
I quietly sketched out a drawing of this eternal one-sided game and presented it to the negro,
his eyes now reflected his worry that I may burn in some imaginary destination for such a blasphemous disbelief,
I assured him that I was a lost cause and he should move onto those who were actively in fear of eternal hellfire,
eagerly, I got right back to the six-day-old joe, the broken television, the uninteresting magazines and made sure to leave out the uninteresting people.
in this bookstore
is an annex
and a cellar
in this annex and cellar
I spend some time browsing
never between the two
that' s where the gaudy people discuss disease along with others
while gays discuss humanism
and the bastards cease to converse on hedonism
they tell me there' s history
imbedded in the annals of this bookstore
there are spectacular amounts of black and white photographs of literary icons
either the annex or the cellar
I spend more time in the annex
than the cellar
surrounded by millions of poems and
and phenomenal men blurting phrases,
" fucking faggots, I hate them"
quiet enough for all to hear
the same phenomenal men
sit comfortably in small chairs
absorbing the works of Blake and Elliot
attention less to those scuffling by
in this bookstore skinny hairy men
have written stories of sodomy, opium, and love
one thousand times over
moving to the ivy league
and dying soon after
in this bookstore
I strive for the comparable death
to my predecessors
hoping for more than repugnant b.o.
to rub off onto me when I go
the hot made for the heatest day
i' ve come to know,
i noticed eyeliner, rogue, and lipstick forming
after dripping off millions of strangers
we once called mom
ugly people, ugly belief, ugly conscience
were all revealed by a horrible
social practice, character, and sensibility
were thrown out to the curb
replaced by buckets of cold water,
dousing expensive linens and silk threads
one of every man' s legs had a sweaty testicle or two
super glued to it so tight,
they formed lines in front of
the jaws of life
my shirt clung to my chest and back
giving me another constant discomfort,
causing my hate to grow
directed at innocent bystanders
a chorus of bickering and moaning
duets of whining and bitching
solo fits of hysteria (the solos went to the females)
the government employed and the fully uniformed,
passes by thinking of ways to die before tomorrow
i gave suggestions to the more pathetic ones,
the ones without state issues hand guns or revolvers
that hot was the heatest hot
people' s faces gnawed off, unstapled,
sifting through city streets,
at unimaginable speeds
heaps of melted prosthetics, ivory, gold, and silver teeth,
and mountains of epoxy and polyps,
the hot continued to linger through the dusk
into the evening
no considerable commotion being caused
but still no relief
only masses of steam draining off boiling asphalt
the darkness only kept the sickening faces a secret
i knew they were there,
in the hot
they were all alike,
forced to tell the truth for the first time
in the hot
i was one of those truth tellers