By Phillip Shabazz

He stood five-foot-ten, built like a man
who never slept through a door slam.
His father's shoulders. His grandmother's mouth.
A scar above his left eye that changed its story
depending on who asked.

He walked before morning, when the city
still had its eyes shut, past the streetlight
dead since September, past porches bowed
like old men praying to nothing, past the rent notice

by Nico Lewis Young

We (the people

who talk

like me)

are at war

By  Gary Greene

Wandering the streets see all the people

Red caps sprinkled here and there

Views of humans snatched acts of Gestapo

Not a news reel of long ago or nightmare

Red caps sprinkled here and there

But I see brown shirts everywhere