Poem

where's the trouble at?
they call it a south parlor gangster.
when just fall asleep waiting. 
I chomp my teeth. 

in an elevator condo.
with ready white.
the devil dances the temperature. 
car keys and reflections in mirror. 

fresh blood. 
short money.
better than the ghetto. 
hopefully, still going up. 

talking to all the asshole artists out there.
don't change.
keep burning boats.
like a classic care for chaos. 

going out of your mind.
is an affordable luxury.
latter ladders, diamonds and lemons. 
never tire of dancing.