The many who separately and personally christened themselves
Kings of New York
and Kings of summer
      and Queens of nothing except for England, and jadedness, and hearts.
wear crowns made of whichever substance seems most characteristic
made of paint or graffiti or blood or trap rap
made from a mix of loneliness, Kool-aid powder, and youthful idealism.
New York is allowed to be ruled by the masses,
New York is royalty to itself
I can call myself a King
when I dangle my feet and swing rhythms out of ashy windows
and demand that your pessimism shut the hell up..
But most kings get their heads cut off.
I can call myself Honorary Royalty.
Because when I leave the pigeons and the pigeon-toed
and I leave the Kingdom's bubblegum streets and romp no longer,
I stop feeling cramped by superfluous freedom and
I appreciate the bars of my bed and my self-inflicted prisons..
Inner struggle and whatnot.
I appreciate them tripping me and trapping me and ******* on my face
Because of them, New York's air tastes a lot cleaner
Especially when coming from the exhale of your exhausted but prevailing breath as it sighs one last pun about seafood into our clammy embrace.