A Poem by Bill Jansen

An Element of Blank

In the fictive state of Oregon
in the Louisiana parish of my body
in the transparent Jaguar
in green frost on a bottle of Belgian beer
my soul in a German subway
I induce an Amherst cop
to sleep with me in solitary confinement,
hoping she would test the citizenship of my breath
which I already knew might not be heaven,
but my memory may have been stupendous
because she let me go,
her pretty frown of bewilderment,
and I said:  I am at the front,
advising her to watch out for magnetized owls
they can hear me under the leaves,
smoking my radials out of town
Stuttgart flew by,
Frank Zappa & Emily Dickinson
in a coffee shop
his elegant hand touching her knee,
Adak, Alaska flew by,
San Francisco & northern Nigeria flew by
like U-pick gooseberry signs,
then, as I hoped it would,
chapters of Nebraska are falling on Paris
(40% words)
I swerved, grayed out,
yellow light big as Colorado,
put a dent in first responder,
apologized to a Coca-Cola machine,
but still no sign of the bejeezus
they say I scared out of a bobcat
in the Los Angeles river.
Not just any bobcat,
the bobcat I now worship.




Bill Jansen lives in Forest Grove, Oregon.