On an island
on the intersection of
Washington Street and Comm Ave
sits a large square
stone monument

It is gated off from
the rest of the world
with black cast iron fencing

Grass and flowers
grow all around it
two American flags
waving in the wind
next to it
on both sides

PFC Stanley N. Kaplan
engraved into the stone
along with other symbols
and epitaphs on it

blowing strong winds
a Jersey City King of Kings
everything . . . to cast his spell
yo! papa Obatala touching tentacles
chance upon this poet on an open forum
inside Harlem Botanical shops
beating for her lost voodoo box
enshroud earth, Virgo oils and pearls
adorn the day happen on
present Oshun crystal mojo, Vodka, chicken wings and Russian suicide writers

© 2011 Lepadah

I've never read a Harlequin Romance
nor fucked the group-mind-think that
thought the Republican agenda
with Democratic pitch-the-dog-a-bone
and let-the tail-wag-but-say-nothing-drones
of-the-corporate empire that begat the
son of God. Jesus. How fucked up does it
have to get? And I'm lost in a bitter tea, swirling around
doomsday with nothing more to say except
that Bukowski should be raised from the dead
and piss away the last poem of the earth.

HONEY

He slipped his number
In your hand
“A handsome man
Of sixty-two”
Said you.,
Honey.

You were only thirty-three’

You liked his Lauren and Armani
Were impressed by his Tommy
“Never saw nails so clean and shiny”
Said you
again,
honey.
“Must have loads of money…
”
That was the end of me
Now he’s screwing you
And you’re “screwing” him
Just like you screwed me
Honey.

By the way.
Did you know
I still cry over you,
Honey..