Contributed by Eliza Jordan |

If eyes could lie,
And hair confess,
What would the secrets hold?
One by one,
The secrets would fumble,
Until cruel intentions unfold.


By Phillip C. Sunkel IV |

Fingers fumbled with agitated arrangements of large white befuddlement flail to fix the frame
A slight sly touch succumbing to the moving picture of the motion picture of our perfectly pictured life
But picture the fixture that attaches to the slightest sight of this motion picture life

When we escape

By Phillip C. Sunkel IV

Our footprints in the sand mark the direction of a drunken story tale,
Our bodies clenched together to support our inebriated minds.
Another step towards the car only leads to another, and another,

Word for Word

Contributed by Ryan Camuto |

I once had a friend, he was like an open book.
A musical score if I may
but he was blank,
a page without a single mark.
Clean, crisp, craving my ramblings with such reception.
It was in him I confided every ounce of my mind,
after such a moment he would just look,
and my open book friend knew
exactly what I meant.

One Night Only

Contributed by Ryan Camuto |

Turn out the house lights,
direct your attention to the man on the stage
spilling his insides out
every note streams over the audience
for eternities, at least through his eyes

Urban sprawl

Contributed by Gian Louis Thompson |

Onyx clouds vanquished what was left of the sun’s reign. I pulled up my hood as a wind beckoned throughout New York City’s concrete bones. The sky blackened with every minute but I felt shielded from the impending storm. The stoop on which I sat was littered with a display of rubbish from old gum to spent beer bottles. A cigarette clung to my fingers like a mantis as it coughed forth a stream of blue smoke. I observed the urban portrait before me, focusing not on one thing in particular. The legions of the storm marched further, conquering more of the sky and deploying barrages of rain with growing ferocity. And so I waited for my friend who was in the building behind me tending to something.

Subway Charmer

Contributed by Gian Louis Thompson |

We stepped from the MetroNorth railcar and onto the concrete platform at Grand Central Terminal. People poured from the doors like ants under a magnifying glass. I took a deep breath and welcomed the familiar scent of the underground musk. Walking towards the main concourse, I greeted the lonely newspaper bin. There it sat, squatted with its robust belly and blue skin, begging for the human’s newspaper waste.

Siren’s Song

Contributed by Jake Heckman

A lonely boy amidst a sea,

He could be you or could be me.

Upon his raft grows an apple tree