Untitled by A.g. Synclair

You find religion in a glass

in half empty bottles

in the twisted notes of that song

in the way she swallows you whole

in the secret hiding place

where you keep her words

a tangled language of crickets and clocks

I Look to You by Tyree Jackson

My journey isn’t smoothly paved.

I’ve been stopped by predators and poisoned along the way.

There were many times I believed I couldn’t stand.

And there were many times I felt my life would just end.

But then I looked to you—your smile allowed me to break the walls that

isolated me from society.

So when I looked into your eyes—my reflection reminded me of a boy striving.

When I cried, I knew that you would be there to wipe away my tears, and say

“My son be strong and keep your head up high.”

You give me strength, when mine has depleted.

And it’s your motherly touch that heals my cuts and bruises when needed.

I look to you when others turned away.

And I will always look to you—for your presence allows me to truly see brighter days.

16 Miles by g emill reutter

Cylinder crosses the landscape

into the city just across Darby Creek

slides into Southwest, passing graffiti

scared bridges, trash covered banks

hurdles toward the turn of the Schuylkill

past the ivory of Penn into the temple of

the old railway gods. Continues northeast

flanged wheels slap cold iron past boat

houses, art museum and zoo into what

was once mansions of strawberry through

badlands past hulking factories of Kensington

with empty eyes tattered remnants of

Frankford, the sweet aroma of Bridesburg

chemical plants. The cylinder flies along

the track crosses the Poquessing Creek

out of the city. They sit not noticing in

designer suits and shoes, tap on computers

ipods over wine beer or coffee. Like those

who came before them, they are not concerned

about what’s left behind.

15 Rounds by Billy Howell-Sinnard

Remember how we used to brawl our way

to a poem. A prize fighter pounding the keys

worthy of a Hemingway adventurer.

At the end of each line

the ding ended the round, then the sweep

of the cylinder like the cut-man

cleaning and sticking your wounds

so you could start another line.

The clack of the keys, hitting the speed bag,

enough in itself to add rhythm and sonics

the more inspired you became.

On your desk in the center of the ring,

a stout Remington or Smith Corona

taunted you to write that publishable poem.

You dreamed of the knockout that rarely came,

just grueling rounds of sparring,

split-decisions, and lonely girlfriends

jilted by your monk-like devotion--

battered and bruised, trying to be a contender.

Two Poems by Jack T. Marlowe

telephony

over a

month of

bittersweet

silence

thirty-six

days, to

be precise

and then

the princess

calls, says

that she

misses me

in spite of

her social

schedule

a perpetual

busy signal

so, she

misses me

she says

though my

answering

machine

tells me

otherwise

and after

more than

a month

on ice

i would

sooner be

drinking

hot bourbon

in hell

than be

just another

number

chilling in

her little

black book

transfusion

the broken

man opened

up the

main vein

of his life

and let his

sadness

bleed out

then he

filled the

emptiness

with

cheap

whiskey

and

cheaper

wine

it didn't

do any-

thing for

his soul

but it did

seem to

improve his

circulation.

when freedom of speech is treated like murder by James D Quinton

turning the corner

I hadn’t expected to see

an agitated young man holding

a frightened old woman to his body

“get back, get back,”

he told the crowd that had gathered

I could see a few ‘have-a-go-heroes’

sizing the situation up

eager

to make their name in the local paper

“get back, get back”

I crept closer

I could see in his

bloodshot eyes that he meant it

he had a Noika pressed into

her skull

his finger on the send key

he’d obviously composed a

deadly message

a diatribe against the government

a rant about capitalism

a paean to socialism

“get back, get back.”

suddenly, a man, well-built, late forties

with a shaven head rushed forward

(he must have pictured himself in print)

he managed to wrestle

the old woman free

the assailant, backing away,

put his mobile phone

in his mouth

some of the crowd shouted “No”

but it was too late

he pressed send.