weather
a slumhouse heaven settlement
remember the time, hidden sentiment
i sang off the beat
like an obese police gentlemen,
weather not autumn
stems of leaves get number
on a worn chair of leisure
called Thursday,
i might use your number-
remember my face
on a rugburned sunday in fall
it’s a gift of creamy graves-
even if my face is blank,
memory falls short like chinese names,
remember i’m rain
only weather that resembles god-
angels laughing their asses off
reading soaked science books with no shame
as thursday came,
i still found you endless gorgeous plenty nice,
we shimmer under city lights-
southside.
i subside
like a dead lighthouse bulb
requesting you crash your life
into mine,
for a short time,
if it gets dull,
remember me,
when it felt like Cali
for a week
in this burning bible called Alabam,
my parking lot in heaven
will have thugs and hook-handed strangers, crying clowns,
they’ll all slam
hands in the laughter stained gates-
and i’ll flood your mind
category five-
grown man flurry of hurricanes

dear saint peter, fuck the gates,
eternity is getting sexed ruffian style
by sunday afternoons-
i can't consider heaven 'til i leave this southern hell,
a pagan memoir written by hands of unborn children
spilled from the crotch of girls who don't know "no",
dig up the cobblestone piss ditch
behind an old building in southside
that's where you'll find my head-
rain knows no joke in which i don't laugh,
flooded mountains are merely moist peaks
objects for me to disregard
when hurriedly filing my complaints
on a poor girl's face,
dear god, saint peter needed a smoke,
but don't worry,
i'm sitting on the bucket,
making sure only virgins get in,
so keep swinging that slingblade,
swigging on corn liquor,
and cussing about the lack of a death parade,
no,
them whores'll never change-
at least monkeys aren't required to have shame,
people sit on their porches unaware
while i'm burying myself in what i would consider
the last solo played by a grand piano
in a room bathed with mirrors
so my ghosts aren't afraid-

i appreciate the kudos from everyone....but some input please?

vultures hang a new clothes-line
on capitol hill,
fresh meat, their ecstasy
sweetness found in a passing bill-
stimulus, mighty dim to us
might as well be digging tunnels
under a caving landfill,
cash crop used as a money prop,
makes too much sense-
i'm  just dense,
we're all pinned under due dates,
my woman would appreciate
a dinner date
without a pound of ground beef
being whored out by me
in my future ex-kitchen-
a tabloid leaked premonition,
i'll need to remain this high
to deal with most
especially,
if i'm expected to butter their rapidly depreciating toast