Travis Bowden

look:
those strangers, those lovers, they met without a past.
they're making a story.
they're writing for the dreamers,
...

i found a note on my walk to the campus, that read
from one friend to another, 'my boyfriend writes
me the prettiest poems.' and i think to myself, 'why
waste such precious time on love? '
...

'how fucking
trite, cliche, (add in
anything you'd like here) , '
...

i spent a week in Odessa. a Motel One room
visited by a depressed cocaine addict.
she told stories of her kids, while we lay
undressed searching for cigarettes on the floor.
...

I didn’t live in Rome to watch the tourists pass by.
I stood there, a model for the world to adore.
My slender body, oh, with such curves.
My golden lips, my make-up turning heads.
...

waking up, whispering 'good morning' to a red sheet
over the pillow next to me at two-forty five in the morning.
i could have sworn i wasn't alone,
but at the same time i thought it was bright
...

it's sometime in the morning, between
blue and black - the sun isn't up, but the sky
almost lies and says so. Happy Days
...

mother nature has a funny way
of telling us, or so it seems. it could
be in the way that she covers
the moon in forest fire smoke,
...

you're sleeping with ghosts and kissing
your pillow. lifing one finger to signal,
dear, Seneca for just one more round.
...