Poetry Super Highway
PSH Main Page Lupert It's The Website

 

week of October 6 - 12, 2003



Jade Blackmore and Adam Joseph




BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
click. here.for. submission .guidelines

Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
I'd Like to Bake Your Good | Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
I'm a Jew, Are You
| Lizard King of the Laundromat
| I Am My Own Orange County | Paris: It's The Cheese | Poetry Super Highway
Rick's Bookmarks |
Cobalt Poets | E-mail Rick | Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick

 

 

 

 

 

Jade Blackmore
Vkjade@aol.com

Bio (auto)

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:
Quirky.com  
http://www.suite101.com/myhome.cfm/quirky    
and www.jadeblackmore.com

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.

Hollywood Eulogy

Girl in beret,
(Closet junkie)
faces melting into mustard
as bums watch.
Incognito splashes,
sidewalks on fire.
Gunshots scattered by the altar of Mary.
Mercedes voodoo.
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.


marilyn

a note for the doctor taped on her stomach.
marilyn
with nothing on but the radio,
dyeing her pubic hair for the first time.
everybody's got something in common with
marilyn
quite mad,
like her mother.
marilyn
with no make-up
a country bumpkin
in flip-brimmed hat.
someone should have warned her
about jealous Italians.
marilyn
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.
marilyn
shivering in sweater in times square subway.
the backalley abortions, the fruitless womb.
marilyn
running up belltower stairs
in high heels
marilyn
when the roses stopped coming.


the problem with comets

is that they catch your eye,
so quick and bright against the sky,
retinas burn.
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,
not acknowledging
the deep trench that sucks you in
or the unwieldy cinder
that ferments the soil.


Adam Joseph
wharfrat17@verizon.net

Bio

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
-uninteresting people,
simplicity was not in time' s schedule
only passing slow enough through darkened ages,
reaching enlightenment,
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.


a bookstore

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
browsing
either the annex or the cellar

I spend more time in the annex
than the cellar
surrounded by millions of poems and
pungent b.o.
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

the hot made for the heatest day
i' ve come to know,
i noticed eyeliner, rogue, and lipstick forming
vibrant lakes,
after dripping off millions of strangers
we once called mom

ugly people, ugly belief, ugly conscience
were all revealed by a horrible
unrealistic sun

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

I say
that hot was the heatest hot
ever remembered

people' s faces gnawed off, unstapled,
silicon implants,
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
from themselves
i knew they were there,
naked, revealed

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

Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
I'd Like to Bake Your Good | Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
I'm a Jew, Are You
| Lizard King of the Laundromat
| I Am My Own Orange County | Paris: It's The Cheese | Poetry Super Highway
Rick's Bookmarks |
Cobalt Poets | E-mail Rick | Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick