The Crown

To find divinity is-
to be in love with fooling yourself-
to romanticize subtle comforts,
please keep pouring the Southern Comfort,
and here I am in love.

At first, the unattainable one
whose drunk hand holding lent to forming
some pseudo-sordid solidity in blueorange acid trip rising sun.
Fingers still splintered from that bench by the ferry’s water
like ghosts of the first kisses that linger-
the birth of winter out of blanketed glimpses of the skyline,
and to think I thought, “If only I could win her.”

The housecat goes for walks and plays games,
but ultimately-
that warm nuzzle back
into soft familiarity feigning begged death-
smirking smile is no lie,
our found love like opiate is vile only
to those hounds who hound the stiff knees of misery.

We dreamily fall to the sway of addiction to touch-
skin melted to skin-
the evening’s poison,
let breathe on flesh be our sacrifice to health,
roam and tread now on this wealth,
golden poverty but with love in perspective.

Be mine like that damn parrot in the window
above my lamp where midnight Camel smoke drifts through,
his voice a reminder of my reality, of my weight,
never forgetting me-
dream of all we’ll never.

All I ask is that you don’t forget me
like modern cynics have forgotten that
there is still glowing charm in Christmastime-
let an apathetic Jew tell you-
the cold air that babbles of someone else’s innocent joy,
comfort,
hope only that witty Klosterman sarcasm doesn’t rewrite that,
live to breathe that air, moan if you must.

Crown me this sad king with a palace and a palate,
my taste is of all you are, my kingdom all you have.
Love like moral hypochondriacs fear-
design desire and devour each hour,
only jewels are jaded when the past has faded
to the corpse of yesterday,
and we moan till hoarse, but of course,
we still have today.