Love's Lament

To thee I send this written ambassage
By legal courier, registered mail
To show thee worthy of thy sweet respect

I cannot blame thee for my love
Thou usest with my best man
My second cousin, the pool boy, et. al.

I hated you
When it would have taken less courage
And been far less expense to love

Were I hard-favoured, foul or wrinkled old
Then mightest thou pause, for then I were not for thee
But having no defects, why dost abhor me?

I do forgive thy robb’ry, gentle thief
Of my home, my pension and full custody of the kids
Not all of whom appear like me

But I forbid thee one most heinous crime
Theft of our season tickets to the theatre
Kill me with spites, yet leave these alone

I feel shame that I was so innocent
All the things I had learned
Had been wasted


~ J. D. Mackenzie, Will Shakespeare & Charles Bukowski



Sources

Shakespeare
Sonnet 19
Sonnet 40
Venus and Adonis
Sonnet 26

Bukowski
As the Sparrow
My First Affair

Exodus Redux

My friend the national socialist
says it’s always the same thing
it’s about economics
when we follow the money
draw circles and connect lines
it all starts to make sense

We argue a lot in a friendly sort of way
and I can’t let this one go

I tell her
your point is flawed
and doesn’t apply to my world
in my world poets don’t think like that
our ghetto is big enough for everyone

Not so fast she says
aren’t there only so many publications
only so many pages in each one?
at any given moment it’s a finite number
the ship sinks when it gets too full
(so not digital thinking!)

She only sees the doors open to the good and the fortunate
which she interprets as the English-speaking and the quirky
this sounds a little too white supremist for my taste
having had a thing for Sandra Cisneros for the past decade

So I try to imagine if my friend is right
what if there are some poets who get ration coupons
and apartments with running water
while others are forced to leave town
carrying everything they own
surrounded by jack-booted thugs
who covet their fillings and don’t read poetry

The ex-adrenalin junkie in me
warms to this dangerous image
a new adventure and maybe a new career
in resistance movements

They may not like my dialect, my misplaced faith
or my distain for convention
but one thing they can’t take away
is my willingness to keep walking
until my feet hurt, until the scenery improves
and someone invites me to stay

~ J. D. Mackenzie