One dachshund on its side
three remain standing by Washington Monument
which is being slowly pulled underground
by gap-toothed gophers.
That's what the cop wrote on the back
of my ticket.
A barely holding on bar in Sacramento.
Tonto heard the fundamental sound of a fender bender.
I left a quarter tip,
asked the bartender to remember me for ever
and ever and left.
A few modular days later I catch a ride into Eugene
where every one in the English Department
is barking and chasing a daffodil.
Leaned against a hard copy of Spring
aluminum ladders are smoking cigarettes
robins bring them like worms
pulled from the grave of some immortal fool.
Bill Jansen lives in Forest Grove, Oregon, less that 2 blocks from the gas station where he was born in 1946. A poem, he has no memory of how it happened, said to be in queue to be published this year in Gap-toothed Madness. Perhaps the title will down load anyway. He also cannot explain how many other poems have appeared under his name in various ezines and journals.
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