My name is Travis Morgan.

Welcome to my online portfolio. Here you will find a variety of my works including art, music, and poetry.
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For Yosi on Vapor

Five days after my bicycle ride in the summer of 1987, before the stars came out, I read your letter. It made sense to me. Every morning I would read it until it became a concrete sound in my memory. Like the language you used in your letter, I would hear this same language in everyday sounds. Dogs barking in the background, a distant train, bubbling brooks, frogs croaking, it was no longer just noise.

Rain and thunder were just the beginning of that boiling cauldron that turned ocean waves into a whistling rainbow. Even that following cave that echoed footsteps couldn’t hide the complimenting wooden beats outside. Crafty starlings fell apart pitter-pattering to the rhythm of the trees before I read that letter. Only now, could I understand and appreciate the movement of their flight. Recollecting, it was all about texture, wandering bumps in something more than just vapor. Do you remember the sound of that splash of sake between our maki and beer? In cheer, it swished and bubbled and spilled over as our glasses collided. Needing some rest after so much food and drink, I slept under the stars that night. Grandpa visited me the next morning and I told him everything about the kingdom of frogs. Some, but not all, can hear the music.

C is to B as

As obsessed as max over 216 digits I follow that spiraling yellow brick road to a sunflower plant. Interestingly even the family tree of honeybees that pollinated these buzzed along the same path. Sound math painted the path of the great wave that makes reflections in water. The same reflections are seen in the pinecone and in the fruit sprouts of the pineapple. Over the horizon radar also directly follows the formula of this fruit but in listing only. Being lonely and obsessed, I recess to reading alone 289 times before the sacrament of the last supper. All summer these seeds formulaically flower revealing how aesthetics can be golden powered. Showered in numbers I count the drops, I get to 112358132134, but the rain never stops. Bartók’s sonata for two pianos and percussion patters to the rhythm. I listen closer, I’m driven. Seeing 1.618 is how it was written. To who do I owe for these divine proportions? Obsessed to the max, I’m dying, crying, infected, it’s viral. C is to b as, as I disappear into the infinite exterior of this spiral.