There’s always
a mirror
in the bathroom
behind the liquor
bottles on the wall
on the surface of
my Jameson shot
on the rocks
looking into
the eyes of a lover
the reflection
often unfavorable
usually at the end of
the dead end
highway of love
this moment
is a mirror and
I’m not too
pleased by the
dude looking
back.
Copyright © 2012 – Bobby Travis
Today
I still scan
Portland’s streets
looking for you
but not
because I seek
love
that moment
was gone
when you turned
your nose up
on everything
you dreamed of
and promised
in the beginning
no
my darting eyes
back and forth
are not driven by
love anymore
but instead
my eyes trace
these gritty streets
because
deep down
I want to see
that you’re
alive and well
yet
my puzzlement
is overwhelming
because
I know
I know
I shouldn’t
care.
Copyright © 2012 – Bobby Travis
I’ve been doing
some thinking and
I’m certain that
chili was invented for
hot dogs.
Before that
people were like
eh, hot dogs are alright
but then
someone got wise and
said, let’s make some
slimy meat
to put on the hot dog.
Greatness
was born that day
the rest
a matter of history and
I say
you’ve got to take the
small victories
when they come.
Copyright © 2012 – Bobby Travis
If a car engine
were made up of
a thousand
hummingbirds and
misfired
it would make the
same sound
as the crowd did
while waiting for
the poets
to take the stage.
The room was
drenched by the mixing
scents of beer
coffee and wine and
I’m not sure who
ordered the cinnamon
toast but
the barista was
burning that shit.
I sat there
almost expressionless
smiling occasionally
when the beauty
beside me
glanced my way
who looked to be
somewhere between
nineteen and twenty-two
It’s difficult to say
nowadays
because they just didn’t
build them that way
when I was a kid.
The first poet
took the stage and
began reciting
a poem about his
grandmother and
excessive erections.
The applause came
the poet went
everyone clapped
that was overall
the routine
for the rest of the
night at the local
poetry slam.
Copyright © 2012 – Bobby Travis
I saw a bum today
okay, sorry
a homeless man
washing
his socks in the
community
water fountain.
Then I saw a man
running toward the max
his briefcase
fallen open and everything
wind-born as he ran.
I then passed wind
took a drag on my cig
kept looking around
because what else
is there to do?
The city was
sleeping
most movement
the waste
in the streets
tumbling and
committing suicide
by jumping into
the cracks of city
drains.
I had a job
somewhat decent pay
a studio apartment
a young lady
who enjoyed my company
yet under my skin
I couldn’t rest.
The condition of
the economy
the overall human
condition
dug into me
like a bayonet into
the stomach of
a squealing teenage
solider.
The observation of life
is much
the same as who we see
looking back from within
our bathroom
mirrors
in fact
we all live in this
image together
some of us
slipping through
cracks of our own
existence
saying fuck this system
because we
belong to the universe
if anything
at all.
I took a seat just inside
one of my coffee
spot stops and
dropped my things
grabbed a coffee
with sugar and cream
because that’s
the way I like it.
Copyright © 2012 – Bobby Travis
Psycho Killer
My coworkers and I
decided today
that you must be a
serial killer.
After all
there has to be something wrong with you.
You see,
I explained
yes
he makes me coffee
cooks me breakfast
and dinner
and he does the dishes
too.
He is respectful
and intelligent and interesting
and his sidelong grin
is downright dangerous.
But he doesn’t know it.
Not always.
I get poems delivered
promptly to my inbox
most mornings
and he has the most
delicious
pillow talk
I’ve ever heard.
Well,
one person asked,
is he quiet?
slightly offbeat?
nice guy?
Yes,
I answered,
he’s great.
Be careful,
she warned.
The neighbors always say,
I never saw it coming
he was so
quiet
a little
offbeat
you know
but he was always
nice
to me.
I really think
my coworker
has to be right.
There must be something wrong with you.
And right now
you seem
pretty darn
great.
There is only one
possible explanation.
You must be a
serial killer.
- The Sunshine Kid – All Rights Reserved – Copyright © 2012
Randall’s Response:
Too Good To Be True Obstacles
No obstacle
in all my years of
breathing
has ever stumped me
like this one.
There’s a young lady
I like spending
time with and she
apparently thinks I
might be
a serial killer.
A serial killer…
Well, I never!
Hey, and
that isn’t even
the worst of it, see
while she thinks
I might store body
parts in my freezer
I think
she might be
a zombie.
That’s right
kids
a z- AHHH-MBIE.
She’s enthusiastic
about everything and
I’m sure you’ve
seen how excited zombies
can get over brains
not to mention
I do have a pretty good size
brain
well somewhat big.
And you should
see her swagger and stagger
in the early morning hours.
Anyway
I worry about
the union between
a serial killer and
a zombie.
If I was
a serial killer which
I am not; thank you very much!
she couldn’t be
a zombie
without me first
killing her.
However
she can eat my brain
at anytime
regardless because
my brain
is always alive
constant with
thoughts of the most
adorable zombie
who thinks
I might be
a serial killer.
Of course,
one may never know.
~ Randall Dean Scott – All Rights Reserved – Copyright © 2012
I knew this
crazy █████ once
well, actually
I’ve known many of them
but this one
had one eye █████
███████████████ and
she would ask
before leaving the house
is my eye big today?
the █████
was caused by
her hyperthyroid
██████████ disease
I usually lied to her
saying, no baby they both
look the same and
she would squint
suspiciously
because she knew that I
unlike her
██████████████████████████████
sometimes
you say what needs to be said
as to not step on
someone’s feelings
Of course
I couldn’t help
but wonder
why the question
was always
centered around
the ██████████
although it could have been
because it’s out in the open
where everyone
can see it
████████████████████
for which
she never asked
███████████████ feel big today?
That question
would have made me
a much better liar.
Copyright © 20███████████████is
I wasted
away
slowly
as you watched me
squirm and
turn into the madman
you made
my words used
wasted on you
love and disappointment
adoration
admiration and attraction
sometimes disgust
because no one has
mastered
the ways of a bitch
like you have
all my utterances
in vane
like your desire for plastic
surgery
on your big eye and
I can’t help but wonder
why
why did I
invest the inner
devotion and emotion
the beauty and
the grit
like the texture
in a Van Gough
painting
I bled all over you and
gave you
everything
that I am
because that’s
what you
asked for
my breath
my souls energy
the exertion of my essence
wasted only
so you could pretend to love
everything about me
but then you
mocked and detested
rejected and despised
often with cruelty
all the beauty
that makes me
amazing
you did think
I was brilliant remember and
delightful but
we should be careful with
what we ask for
shouldn’t we
all you could say
before
was how wonderful
I truly am and how
unimaginable your life
would be without me
despite
my reluctance
at first
you spun your web
while I weaved
my words
the elements which
make me
like pixel dots
on a computer screen
wasted yet
tangled in your hold
suffocating
on your wizardry and
con
all the while
knowing
I don’t need you
to know
who or what I am
I don’t need you
to know
that I’m the muthafucking
bomb
I wasted
away
as you sucked
the life
out of me and
now you’re
wasting away somewhere
under the illusion
that you
did the right
thing
I say
whatever helps
you sleep
when the pills
aren’t working.
Copyright © 2012 – Bobby Travis
Sniffles
clammy cheeks nuzzled
into my neck and
your temple on my shoulder
the vanilla candle
burning
while you groan out
the misery of
a cold
wrapping my arms
around you
searching for words
caressing
looking for a miracle
in my mind
that might make you
feel better
but I’m no doctor
nor god or angel
but my heart
tries to be and I
imagine
hot soup and tea
providing you
with everything
anything which might
ease this time
your hands locked
in mine and spooning
in the fetal position
waiting for the time
the time
stolen together
the world silenced
nonexistent
the only faces
yours and mine
without
sniffling or coughing
only the whispers
between us
that keep us smiling.
Bobby Travis – Copyright © 2012 – All Rights Reserved
I open my mini-blinds
to make it feel less
like prison.
You don’t have to go
there to understand
solitude,
especially in Portland.
The overcast skies
are like bars and
not the fun ones.
But you find comfort
in the warmth of
a hot cup of coffee
against the palms
You find peace
on the lips of a lover
the wrapping and
locking of arms.
And when you’re
lucky
the sun pops out
briefly yet
long enough to know
that the light
at the end of the tunnel
doesn’t always
look like the moon.
Then, of course
the smile comes and
I’m reminded of you.
Bobby Travis – Copyright © 2012 – All Rights Reserved
Is it not enough that people
burn hours to earn money for rent?
Is it not enough that we spend
the remaining time on life’s errands?
Is it not enough that Portland skies
piss on us nine months out of the year?
If we’re extremely lucky, make that
two to three weeks of golden showers
also in summer.
Is it not enough to know that if all
the planets were to perfectly align
we might just steal one moment
for ourselves in the sunshine and splendor?
Is it not enough that we daily crack
shatter, break, and crumble
into the abyss of stacked up bills on
the coffee table and worrying that it’s
winter, a bad time for evictions?
Is it not enough when what remains
between having and not having
is a fine line of emotional and mental
breakdown because the act of
getting the green to survive this
leaves each and every one of us
with nothing more to enjoy after
we’ve paid for these boxes we call home
all the sacrifice and here I stand.
My sink is clogged and the plumbing below
is leaking, yet my rent is paid along with
my electric and other financial obligations
but my apartment-building office is closed
today, so the drain will have to wait and so
I ask again, is it not enough that we are
breakable people who want a fair handshake and
some time to enjoy life outside this slavery?
Is it not enough? Apparently, it isn’t.
Bobby Travis – Copyright © 2012 – All Rights Reserved
I stack words in notebooks
carefully like a lepidopterist
with butterflies and the
words, once alive but now
dead or dying as I turn the
pages toward the end,
eventually beginning with
a blank slate of optimism.
Bobby Travis – Copyright © 2012 – All Rights Reserved
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