Odessa, Texas: Where Death Vacations

Poem By Travis Bowden

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.
room 124 was happy hour
for the prostitutes.

imagine a grown man afraid
of an empty bed.

where the street lights lay horizontal
i rode passanger seat, while Richard
drove us the hell out of there.
every two hours we pull to the side
of the road and write in a compositon book
about the week, or what we remember:

No Doz and Red Bull do not,
repeat, do not keep you awake very long.

and i pretened to sleep when we hit
Arizona time (just outside of Safford) . i repeat,
over sad songs on the radio, a poem i wrote
on her white wall in Autsin. her mother
scrubbed this away:

a poem written in 4/4 time, under highway lights
somewhere between Texas and Arizona:

maybe we're a few hours apart, maybe it's light here
when you're dark, but there are always a few moments
we can share,
taking a bath in the sunshine.

Comments about Odessa, Texas: Where Death Vacations

Beautiful. Feels like a sad kiss. This one is my favoirte so far.
This is pretty darn good. Very atmospheric. First sentence seems unnecessary to me, but I like the poem a lot.

5,0 out of 5
1 total ratings

Other poems of BOWDEN

In 4/4 Time

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

Roma Colosseo Shot Glass (In 1st Person)

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.

Distilled Between 4: 57 A.M. And 5: 15 A.M

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

Seneca, My Existential Detective

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

Maybe Love Will Be Like Driving

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