Poetry collection spanning three decades. Poems in this collection appeared in many literary publications and small press zines in the 1990s.
Blood On My Quarter
Look at this razor-edged grey eagle with grooves like out of tune piano keys.
It digs into my sandpaper skin as it crusts in the flaccid corner of my coat pocket,
Decaying into the cotton, becoming filament. In a gesture of mock suicide, the edges bite, sprouting teeth that I lost somehow, inside your cold, unavoidable walls. The coin sticks to my fingers as I bring it out of its hole. Blood is like a balm, the only reminder of this night.
You send me home by bus at midnight,
after a static renewal of my brittle bones,
after a night like this.
From Lisa Book Reviews
In Jade Blackmore's collection of poetry entitled Close, But No Pizza, every compelling piece strips the reader down to his/her bane essentials, forcing one into introspection. From the grim reality of a teenager named Julie, to the sexual prowess of David, those at the forefront of Blackmore's poetry are gritty and realistic, someone off the street, not a figment of imaginary bliss.
From the cathartic "Meltdown" to the raw and edgy "Succubus," Blackmore grips the reader with her stark realistic and yet at some points erotic poetry. She teeters on the brinks of paradox and catharsis throughout her "David" poetry, teases with humor in "Close, But No Pizza" and teaches through her travels in context. "Why Someone Drew a Crucifix on the Telephone Booth" slams a powerful fist of the acute pain of tragic loss.
Jade Blackmore, a freelance writer living in Los Angeles, has been featured in dozens of publications and websites, including Playgirl, Unpop.com, Suite101.com. Modamag.com, Erosha.net, Wickedstories.com, and Niedergasssen.com. She has worked in the publishing and music industries for over 20 years. The incredibly diverse 26 poems of Close, But No Pizza are filled with vivid situations beg for meaning and introspection.