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The Morning After

                              Eyes out my back window             Lost in thought             Ankle fog             Low rumbling tide             Shifting sand Precarious anchored sea grass   Winds whistle on salted weather             Vacant deck             Adirondack chairs             Gray scabbed             Two empty glasses             Prone wine bottle Grape stained pool from drips   Busy myself with the start of the day             Grinding beans             Pressed coffee             Aroma filled air             Startling noise             Ahah coffee for two perhaps   Holding my breath before turning around             Mussed hair             Sleepy cuteness             My old tee shirt             Eyes downcast             Coffee good mornings What did we do smiles exchanged   Out my window from my breakfast bar             Two stools             Side by side             Eyes on the ocean             Cupped coffee mugs             Maple bacon             English muffins    
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Unchaining Myself From Prison Scars

                                                                            By Tristan   Prison does not suit me but I wear a prison suit that fits me. The neck-tie tightening each day, asphyxiation attempting to determine me.   My heart’s shattering desires attention, yet is appropriated by moments of vulnerability guarded in fleeting shadows.   I am alone here but never alone. The proximity of bodies that are confined with me, tide like a dense fog moving in on me.    Traveling on a stranger’s eyes flowing like lava through blackened skies, I wait for an hour where I am not so alone. I am always waiting.   Crouching in the corner of my box, pulling up imaginary walls around myself. I write fragments of poems about the things I’ve done – about the things I will never do.    When night arrives it’s lighter than the dark inside here. Slivers of moon catch the tips of razor wire, luring, startling my senses.    My mind seizes for a moment around the totality of my circumstances. Thoughts
                                                            Stolen                                                                  My lover, a fire crying in the sun. Affliction that cannot be distinguished beyond the mask of passion. In the far distance the gentle river. I am yet to feel its cool, tender flow.   Evening’s relentless perspective bears lava skies, warning my sailor soul, still I voyage. I split my heart in two and gave away half. With reckless greed, you took the other half as well and left me shivering under the moon.   The darkness would not conceal me, cruelty assured that.   Against a putrid rank I am swallowing what once held me.   Hurt comes often but feels unfamiliar, stinging in a different artery each time.   Fragments of myself are disassembled like a mannequin; discarded remains. Scattered on the eyes of the floor. Emotional components that cannot be just snapped back into place.   My thoughts have become the silent third partner in my relationship with myse


Teasing flame to glass, spinning the stem between dirty tips of fingers. Selfish again, to those with expectations. Barely above the skin, as cold bones etch their structure through the surface. Alone in preference. Exhausted by stepping on hearts stepping through hearts. Yesterday, I saw my reflection in a glass bowl, the distortion studied me. Today, I saw a reflection in the mirror, a figure with hollow eyes. Who is this? Fear briefly appeared. Without permission, the wind bullied its way through a crack in the window. The intrusion carelessly blew a post-it note to the floor. Have a nice day! A sweet yet bitter reminder of someone I once cared about. I let it where it settled, understanding it would be too heavy to lift. A photo of my father and I posing with a couple Chinook salmon, remained magneted to the face of the refrigerator.  My eyes burned in sadness in shame. The pain was aggressive. I did not want to e attached to any of it. I retreated to a


A girl brought me kiwi and a T shirt from Hawaii My first taste          I liked it. At the park we kissed and other things               My first taste             I liked it. I lost the T shirt and  the girl            I did not look hard for either. I wish I knew where they both were now                                I miss it.             Tristan  Fall 2019

A Little Trouble Letting Go

Early my eyes to a day just fawning where the tide has encroached high and the fogs hang low. Where the cries of gulls intrude upon the gentle bellow of the sea and a suggestion of salt last on my tongue. ---- a swollen sadness is here as well --- I am numb in thought to what has been lost.  Now that spring has come, do the tender sprouts of my conscience show? ---I feel a bit empty ---- Attempting to gather myself, I scouted the shorelines once pathed in perfect spring.  Foolishly I looked to see if they were still there, foolishly. ---Am I tormenting myself? Her words were well liter formidable opponent to any resistance I may have had; I had none. She blew into me like a summer breeze, like she was summer tea, sweet and effortless.  She left even easier. ---lies burn seconds into the truth. Her heart was as big as a castle and twice as empty.  I misjudged her luxuries, thinking they would be enough to sustain happiness. ---Deceived by false-hearted seduction.