The Real Lance Brown

What’s up, slow squirrel?

Oh, now you’re fast.

I thought you were just going to stand there

While I walked past.

-6-13-10

My latest column is up at Project Simplify…

The Not-So-Simple Life: “The Night Before Perfect”

‘Twas the night before Perfect, and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring—spiders all shoo’d out;
This night had been looming since I was but a lad,
I knew that come midnight, Peace of Mind would be had!
The dogs had sprawled out on my bed, as per the norm,
And the cats had curled up by the stove to get warm
That left only me, in my electronic hub,
Seeking simplicity—and I was right near the nub!

Read the rest at Project Simplify

how many molecules
separate me
from everything I see
around me

I see the things
but not the things
that I don’t see
in between me
and what I see

there’s so much more
I’m missing in the middle
a million billion molecules
at least, maybe more

too many spaces
between me and that
or me and you
too many molecules
to make it all the way through
to that
or you

even when I touch it
or you
still a million billion
spaces between us
to get through

9-14-10

My vocabulary used to expand

But now it just seems to

What’s the word…

Contract.

Ensnared in my regrets, I see
A bitter face looking back at me
The face is my own, and the bitter is too
And my regrets ensnaring me is nothing new
But something is rising– or rising again
My strength is returning like a long lost friend

Like a long lost friend who has shown up too late
Who can only observe the unrolling of my fate
And sit helpless, restrained, watching through glass
As I attempt to stand, and then fall on my ass
Again and again, and again and again and again
Just beyond the reach of the help of my friend

-1/05/06

Duct-taped doorknob
Trash is my home
I’m broke and alone
I hate the fucking phone

Leave a message at the tone
And I won’t get back to you
Because my self-contempt
Is breaking through

-Summer 2006

my cobweb circulation
betrays me
the inner me
it shows my face to my face

inside it’s welling
burbling gurgling
I spew occasionally
both good and bad

will I understand?
when I understand.
(I will)

A poem
Of a truly poetic nature
Would never refer to itself
Instead it would stay
at the cusp of the day
filling up a drop of dew
that hangs from a lonely leaf
always hanging, never dropping
Until a persistent ray
Of warmthening sun
Would rise above itself
To meet the challenge
Steaming
That verse-filled drop
out of existence

And that steam
would later be captured
In the thin mist of
Nervous perspiration
On the brow of
A young lover
As he approaches the door of
She whom he most desires

And never conquered-
No–
Never conquered
Not the steam
Nor the drop
Nor the noonday sun
None of these,
Or the armies that follow
can defeat
the dream of a love
Untarnished

And that is not to say
That there had been no attempt
At tarnishment
That is not to say
That there had been no
Challengers
That is not to say that
There had been no battle,
Then triumph, then battle again,
Then defeat, then triumph
And more battle
No!
No!
There were all those things
And more
In the young lover’s heart
as he reached the door
And he mopped at the mist
that gathered on his brow
As he anticipated
the evening, and the morrow

And why would a dewdrop
transformed into the bead of a young lover’s anticipation
And all the unknown battles that were fought to produce it
Why would these, together
with the young lover himself,
and his lover as well
ever confess
To being a lowly poem
or worse– mere players within?

A proper poem would never
Pull off that mask
It would never
Answer that question (or another)
A proper poem
would not step right up
and introduce itself
It would not look you in the eye
And profess its true nature

Proper poems are more sly than that
They make me jealous
Sneaky bastards.

(Written 11-13-04)

A shooting star
Every night
It’s quite a sight
A dashing light
Night after night
The sky takes flight
It’s quite a sight

I had a dream
It was a pretty boring one though
No major special effects
No strange changes of scenery
No flying, floating, or falling
Nothing was chasing me
I didn’t have an epiphany or
A meeting with God
Saw some old friends I haven’t talked to in a while
It was sort of a picnic, camping thing
Played soccer with some kid
I don’t know who
There was a table
And a woman in a wheelchair

And that morning
I resisted waking up
Kept wanting to stay in that dream
Partly
Because I wanted to unlock the
Mystery of the subconscious message
that it had for me
Partly
To stay snuggled in the comfort
The safe universe
That dreams can supply
Partly because
I didn’t really get a chance
To talk to my friends
And I’m not sure if I
Apologized sufficiently
To the woman in the wheelchair

But mostly
I wanted to go back
And back
And back again
Just to see
How the dream
Was going to end

Sometimes I wish that questions were answers
And that wondering was understanding
And that hoping was achieving
And wishing was having
I wish sometimes that ignorance was knowledge

If questions were answers
I’d ask them all day

San Pedro is a place
That I’ve never been
In fact
I’m not totally sure it’s a place
But I think it is
I think I’ve heard of it
I think I’ve heard someone else
Talk about San Pedro
As a place that they had been
Actually,
I don’t think they were talking
I think they were singing
And not about a place they had been
But one where
The person they were singing about had been

And that’s when I developed a connection
To San Pedro
A connection that lasts to this day
And will almost certainly last all my life
And I still don’t know if San Pedro is even a place
If it is
It’s a place I’ve never been

It’s a different understanding
Every day.
Every day
A different world
And a way of seeing it
That’s different
Than ever before

Every moment
A unique perspective
Every moment
Never to be seen again

Ten tall trees
Together
Towering
They thrive through the tests
The threats
The trauma

Thanks to the trees
That tree
This tree
Those two trees
These three trees
That tree there

They truly triumph
Those trees
Towering timelessly
Titans

One seldom thinks of the worry
Of a squirrel’s mate
Who waits
Restless
With nervousness
For a spouse who will never return
We seldom consider
What effect that loss
Will have on the children
And on their children

Roadkill
That’s what most of us think
Nothing beyond that

We certainly don’t think of the worry
Of a mother who waits at home
Not knowing
Perhaps never knowing
That she is now a widow

“granny film recently”
Those three words just came to me
Inexplicably
(A modifier that fits much of what
My mind does to me)

Three unrelated words
Unrelated, until now
Came up to the front
Of my mind somehow

I thought at first
They could not be used
By me
A thought which was
Quickly disabused
By me
As I came up with a verse
Or, more properly,
A rhyme
And the rest of it came following
In due time.

What’s that spider’s
Favorite color?
Does my dog prefer
Comedy or drama?
What’s the mood of
This tomato plant?
And, does a tree
Think of its mama?

Is a bird fascinated
By the view it enjoys
Or no more than we are
By the sidewalk?
Do miniscule pieces
Of colored dust
Feel a sense of community
As chalk?

When a star catches light
From a billion other stars
Does it sense that it’s surrounded by peers?
When a newborn fly
Feels tiny and afraid
Does it know that we all share its fears?

Slipping down
It’s all slipping down
It’s always slipping down
At least it seems that way
When it’s slipping down

You can grab it
But you can’t hold it
You can hold it
But you can’t keep it
You can keep it
But you can’t control it

It seems that way
When it’s slipping down

It’s not even yours
It’s not even you
You’re just a part of it
And it goes on around you

You can’t stop it
You didn’t start it
Best you can do
Is try to keep it
From slipping down

At least it seems that way
When it’s slipping down

A dog walks into a bar
The things we think of
Who knows why?
And who cares really
It’s just things

And his owner says,
“Hey, buddy, how did you
get in here?”
And he gets up, and walks out
With his best friend

“You ready to go home, pal?”
The dog wags his tail
“Yes, and some dinner would be nice.”

No punch line for you.

Your grandiose despairs
Opaque to you
Transparent to others

I don’t mean to point
The finger at you-
It’s me, too
All of us really
Lacking outer perspective

After all, one can’t be
the fly on the wall, and
Also be the thing the
fly is watching,
can one?

Looking at yourself
With external eyes
Imagine what you’d see