Do?
That’s an interesting question…
What do I do?
Well, I suppose if you’re asking who
I am
I’m still discovering
I’m learning to know mineself
I’m Lance, the Lance articulated—

now watch the tongue, the cleft palate, as the beast
stares into the mirror, pronouncing his name, name that
dilates his pupils and matches the
resonate frequency of his soul—

L
Luh
Lance.

That’s who.

But you’re not asking that…

 You’re asking what I do as

defined by you as

defined by what I do

and the smartaleck answer is:

“I’m trying to follow
Jesus.”

But you are too.
Or so you say (even though the extortion of
that one, the
violence of the one beside him,
your own personal political obsession and
your business-church oxy
moron
over there
make me wonder)

But
you say you are, so
we’ll have to go another route…

I could say “I writer”” but then
I’d get that same look from you
fine people
that I get from all the rest, that
cutesy-oh-look-at-him-yawn
glaze
covering eyes, blinding hearts
to my work:

bury your grammar of
violence, lust and greed
under a mountain of
nonviolence, love and charity
that I writer—
and in the writing speak at
least to your children
grandchildren
bring a bit of hope into your
home even if you ignore it
or even on the off chance that you hear me
you misapply it
or beyond that to the carnality of
numbers, the brutality (in the late 15^th century sense) of statistics,
those clever modern
lies

You see me as the guy who does
movie marathons
trilogy triatholons
in his
pajamas
every day:
LOTR, MATRICES, X1-3, HP1-7.2, SW:ANH-SW:RotJ
merely because I’ve watched them
can quote them
can use them in a sermon in ways more tactful,
helpful,
true than “Frodo = Jesus”
makes me
suspect
But for get that I write
from inspiration
every morning at 9 AM
sharp.
Forget the three-thousand hours I
spent slaving over a craft
this year alone
that may
or may not
pay me back what is my due wage
What’s owed
me
(all’s grace, nothing’s due,
Lance He whispers in my
inner ear
and He’s right
we all earn a pile of
nothing, so really we should
level the playing ground
by agreeing on our collective salary of
$0 per year and reevaluate
based on the trade
value when I exchange
stories for song for cheese for lumber for paper for more stories
that is why we call it our
“trade”
after all, thanks for reminding me
I whisper back)
for
get that I define “gainful employment”
by what others will gain
from me
when I am spent and decomposing
rather
than what they lose
so that I may
prosper
(money is debt, for good or bad)
If no profit,
If no boss,
If no material possession,
then all is suspect where job is concerned for you
fine people.

So “I writer” won’t do either
nor will
“I writer”
as my typewriter insists on forcing
into this hypothetical
conversation
I’ll never have with you
fine people

Could say “I’m between jobs”
but that’s what your itching ears
want to hear
not to mention it’s downright false
whether paid or unpaid or overpaid or underpaid
I’ve logged well over
my 40-hours-per-week for the last
two years
(More than some of you bums could say,
what with your mojitos and
vacation houses and
all)
Could say “I pour concrete”
but I stopped that three seasons ago
Could say “I freelance edit” but that
just don’t catch the whole of it neither
Could say “I did a partnership residency as a research assistantalongsidefreelanceworksidejobsandgeneralpublication and…”
Could say
twelve thousand things, but you don’t
want a one of them, which means that you’re
notinterested in what I do,
let alone the complexity,
this infinite simplicity of
who I am,
so I think I’ll revert to plan

A:

“I’m Lance. I try to follow Jesus,”
and watch you squirm.

A note on 50 @ 25: 

Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three.  Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest of his work being supposedly non-poetic. This resulted in 46 poems written at 23.

These poems came out exponentially faster and faster before my 24^th birthday on April 30^th – and I had to write in genres spanning from epic ballads to limericks to get 46 in on time. I guess that means, for better or worse, that’s the best poetry I’ll ever write. Sad day.

Who was I kidding?

Milton was blind and old—oooooold—when he publishedParadise Regained. Emily Dickenson was dead when her stuff came out. My favorite stuff from T.S. Elliot came out after his conversion. So yeah, old age is good for poetry too. Look at Burns and Berry.

(Side note: the name “Berry Burns” sounds like a shady car salesman).

Will I keep up this twice-my-age regimen every few years? Who knows, but this year, here’s to 50 poems at 25 to be written exponentially faster until I turn 26 on April Thirtyish. I do it this the second time around as a way to say: “Here’s to living life well before it’s too late.”