Archive for the Travis Blair Category

Crossing the Desert by Travis Blair

Posted in Travis Blair with tags on July 8, 2013 by Scot

The Angus steak burger would taste better
without the chipotle sauce, but this train
runs to Mexico so I’ll take it like a man.
I’d prefer the taste of guacamole spread,
the cool slick kind Bianca whips up.
To be more specific, a batch like she made
for my fortieth birthday and smeared
all over my chest. Well, you can guess
what happened next, and I think about it
as I stare out the dining car window.
I see buzzards perched on saguaros
which reminds me of old Road Runner
cartoons, the way the vultures sit
with shoulders hunched when Wile E
Coyote blasts by on his way to get hit
by a train crossing the desert. This has
nothing to do with guacamole or chipotle
sauce, it’s just the waitress serving lunch
reminds me of a skinny road runner with
her blue-grey pants and orange knee-high
socks and the way she struts like nothing
can ever touch her. And nothing can.
After all, I’m no threat, and Poncho Villa
was killed a hundred years ago begging
his men to make up something to tell
people he said when he died,
something that sounds cooler than
Vámanos! Let’s run that stop sign.

Two Poems by Travis Blair

Posted in Travis Blair with tags on March 17, 2012 by Scot

Asparagus and Spam

He fixed me up
with his older sister Huong—
which means pink in Vietnamese.
She taught yoga and spoke
six languages.

Huong showed up perched
on five inches of stiletto attitude
wearing striped knee-high socks,
orange and yellow on passion pink.
Her skirt showed off her thighs.

I took her to an art film,
The Housemaid, erotic
and sensual — so graphic
it left us speechless.

Back at her house
Huong offered to serve me
dinner, a taste of her native culture.
I told her I loved Vietnamese.

She flashed a sardonic smile
and made sandwiches—
asparagus and Spam on rye.
I think she was putting me on
in a seventh language.



Sundays, while your family
sits in church, you come
to my bed and we fuck,
our passion a raging religion
of need. In the afterglow
we lie naked while I read poetry.
You struggle to understand
my language but love the sound
of my voice. I love the inky
blackness of your hair
feathered across my belly.
I love the delicacy of your finger
tracing circles inside my thigh
until I grow hard again.
I hate the peal of cathedral bells,
how they signal the end
of love-making, how you dress,
rush home, resume your role
as the faithful wife.


Travis Blair lives a mile down the road from the University of Texas in Arlington where he earned his B.A. in English Lit. After a long career in the movie business, he took up poetry writing. He is author of Train to Chihuahua, a collection of his poems about his adventures in Mexico, and has written many other poems that appear in various literary journals.  He has two daughters and five grandkids and hides from them frequently in Manhattan and Mazatlán.

Two Poems by Travis Blair

Posted in Travis Blair with tags on December 26, 2010 by Scot

Chasing Dolphins

We rode Harleys to the wharf
that day we chased dolphins
south along the coast.
Those sleek streamlined mammals
leaped and dived, followed by egrets,
pelicans, and half a dozen boats
with cowboy captains at the helm.
I snapped pictures of you
in a deck chair, your hair whipped
by saltwater wind.  You said
I looked so Hemingway
but I felt James Dean.

By sunset we crossed
into Mexico and the sky glowed
as feisty red as our sunburned skin.
We turned back up the Gulf,
docked our boats at Laguna Madre,
drank shots of Don Julio at the bar
and danced till after two AM.
Before sunrise we staggered
to our room and collapsed.
I have no idea how we got back
or who brought the Harleys home.

Poached Egg Blues

I think of her when I poach an egg
Court of Two Sisters style.
She learned how in New Orleans
watching a white-clad cook
crack an egg, drop it in a pot
of boiling water swirled clockwise
with a wooden spoon.

In wide-eyed astonishment
she watched the egg tumble,
swim laps around the pot,
its skin whitening over yellow yoke,
then ladled – perfectly poached –
onto an English muffin.
She brought it to our courtyard table,
grinning, eager to teach me
when we returned home.

And for a week in our kitchen
she practiced until perfect,
then served me her culinary treasures,
smiling like a cat, proud
of her new found skill.