They were followed,
Rather quickly,
By Philadelphia’s finest
Sanitation truck
To pick up their waste.

The rainbow of
Hats and gloves,
Sweaters and coats,
Had found the ground
As body temps soared,
Go figure

A couple of citizens
Seeing the runners’
Crap
Found plastic bags
And beat the policing
Action’s moderate rigor

They became an improvised
Salvation Army
And gave the bags
Of useful waste
To the their namesake
Charitable organization

On the same block
Where the runners’ crap
Had been discarded.

As the army disbanded,
They couldn’t help
But wonder
Why more armies
Couldn’t be mobilized
Next
Time

And
Next
Time

And
Next
Time

“poetry is a bird, prose is a potato”

Billy is inspired by irritation.
Emotions can be distractions.

The Romantics eliminated sex and humor from poetry
and substituted landscape

Billy says that the past tense of “Oh, my God” is
“I was like, Oh, My God.”

Writing is an act of hope:
we hope someone will read it.

I just got the chills.

Billy needs to give us girls “a break.”

A gasp from the audience.

It never goes how we think it will.

Would they be an angry mob?

Billy thinks the best time to write is with a blank mind

{btw…this is my extra poem…now I’m caught up again…for my 30 poems in 30 days}

Rex Pizza
Must be from the Tyrannosaurus family
Of Italy

Two slices were enough
For a family.

Thin, but cheesy.
Cheap, but yummy.
My shrooms hit the spot
The sausage filled in around
The spot.

Everything in the vicinity
Of the spot
Was covered
In some manner.

I tried rolling
My second slice
To make it more
Appealing.
A Kabodizone
Of sorts.

Nothing doing.

Most
Of the second slice
Sits there
Lonely,
Except for several
Crumpled napkins.

Sorry Mom,
I tried.

I know…
I can’t get up
Until it’s done.

You’ll just have to understand.
Or check out Rex’s
On Race near 17th.

Choose wisely.

He’ right over there.
Not 20 feet from me.

He just ate a banana.
And read an article
In the local paper

Minding his own business
At a table in the hotel lobby

About to speak to
A
Few
Thousand
English teachers

He’s talking with a friend
Right now

Should I interrupt?

How many chances to do you get
In
Life?
.
.
.
Did it.

Very gracious.

Signed my book,
Said hi to my students
In my voice recorder.

Feelin’ the rush
Flowing through me.

You
Know what I mean,
If he’s spoken to you
In “Forgetfulness,”
“The Art of Drowning,”
Or
“Another Reason I Don’t Keep A Gun
In the House”

You
Know.

Keep speaking, Billy.
And thanks.
You rock.

Her flight directions
Had extra emphasis
As if she were mocking herself.

“For your safety, keep that seatbelt fastened”

When she handed me
My napkin, saying,
“Here’s your advertisement”
I knew

“Continental is celebrating 75 years
1934-2009”

The other 27 people
On our flight knew,
Especially the guy behind me —
He wanted coffee
In the midst of our jolting ride

“It’s a tad bumpy for coffee, but hey,
You’re an adult.
I’ll pour you some up there
We’ll see how much makes it back.”

Most of the flight
She sat there
Staring at us.
She became Sister Mary Margaret
Overseeing
Our weird CCD fieldtrip.

“If Cleveland, Ohio is your final destination”

Long

Pause

(you might want to rethink your decision…and)

“you’ll need to your find your luggage.”

—–
{Again, the date says 11/20, but I wrote this late on 11/19, so it counts for my Thursday poem}

I get her
a glass of water,
I know she wants one;
She writes me a note, places it in my bag,
as a surprise;
we plan a get-away,
over and over again,
and sometimes,
we even get there;
when actually, every day
is a slice
of paradise.

——-
Again, I thank Kevin for the forethought of his Voicethread.

I look in the windows
of the library
as if looking for myself
in deep thought

I usually frequent
the Red Cedar River’s rapids
following the river downstream
to that proud, though tiny, statue,
that is Sparty

My Spartan Stadium fly-by
is something out of a sim computer game
and the band’s kick-step
looks almost war-like
from above

Recently, a student asked me
what animal I would be

I’m all about the larger-than-life eagle
reaching unheard of altitudes
soaring effortlessly down
in slow spirals

and snatching a bass right out of the river

Haven’t seen an eagle
at MSU
except
in my reflection

The mouth of this goldfish
Looks deeper
Than the goldfish itself.
Mr. Goldfish appears to be
Coming up for a desperate
Breath of air
Like I might
If I was a tad overweight,
49 year old, Armenian
Goldfish.

It’s working title is “Theories”

I’m trying to make interesting observations
Odd connections
Relationships between things one might not expect

There are weird things happening all the time
Getting them down on paper is the hard part

Colleagues who call me Mr. Kabodian
Think they are being respectful
Just make me feel old

And

The fact that my dentist reminds me of that scary clown
From my childhood

And

I tend to notice less black squirrels
In upper middle class neighborhoods

And

People who like Math
Are harder to please

And

The same ten people get their Editorials
Printed in the newspaper
All the time

All of the theories/observations
Would have some theme or make some point
About the complexities of life
Or its quirks

I’m not sure I’m a deep enough thinker
To pull this poem off

But if I can put it all together
I’d be very pleased

Did you want to know all of this?