I figure I might as well start out at the top, so my first writing post here is my ode to that popstar of poetry, Billy Collins. If you’d like to see some of the greatness I am imitating, go to Billy Collins page at the Academy of American Poets
I Am Not Billy Collins
It’s too bad that I am not
Billy Collins. I mean, he’s popular.
And not like herpes or
unwanted pregnancies. A woman
with a round stomach is not
usually looked on with kindness.
The sunrise is not
Billy Collins, the way it lazily
moves its eye across
the waiting sky, watching
day’s birth. Being not Billy
Collins, I might write about
a drunk father still asleep
in the cornfield, who hugs
an empty bottle bought
with money stolen from his son.
I might write how light glistens
off the glass right above the whiskey label.
See, that would be too unfunny
and pretentious, unlike you-know-who.
Alcohol is not Billy Collins,
the way it burns fists into faces
or tricks people into fucking.
He brings us together in a, you know,
softer way, like ice cream on your tongue
after you spent the afternoon weeding.
I lie on a hammock –
or is that lay? laid? –
wishing I had the language
to be more than Not Billy Collins.