Faded Light 

In Conchos Chinas afternoon turned

to salmon clouds and faded light.

We sat submerged in Jacuzzi foam

listening to Buena Vista Social Club

recorded in Havana

our thick blue glasses filled

with cool mojitos.

Four famous chords

announced Compay Segundo

playing Chan Chan live.

It was the year before he died

and summer dripped time

thick as honey.

Sitting naked

in bubbling water

playing footsies and touching skin

we drank mint rum

and felt the harmony

of a seven-stringed armónico.

We believed

we would live forever.

Compay believed he would too

but his kidneys failed at 85.

I hope mine

will last that long

but nothing plays forever.


Monsoon Afternoons 


arrived like freight trains

every day at three

dumping solemn rain from discontented clouds

colored with anger

clearing beaches along the malecon

filling oceanfront bars

we'd sit on the roof

at Eagle's Nest, sheltered

beneath the bar's thatch top

Puerto Vallarta spilled

down hillsides beneath us

its orange terra cotta housetops

drenched by a summer pour

we'd talk of Yankee superstars high on Steinbrenner's money

discuss unprotected sex and how viagra works

argue Latin American politics and Catholic confessions

joke about my beer belly and her skinny legs

wish we were back in the ocean

or feasting on tacos and tequila shots

instead of listening to the relentless rain

Travis Blair is an old outlaw who lives a mile down the road from the University of Texas in Arlington where he graduated back in the Dark Ages.  For 30 years he worked in the movie industry before taking up writing poetry.  His poems have been published in Znine, Taking a Chance, South Africa's Kreative, Plain Spoke and in next month's Instant Pussy.  His collection of poems written in and about Mexico is being prepared for publication this fall as his first book.  

next William Doreski 

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