The best writing in the world, period.  Live it.
Sept. 4, 2002
volume i, issue ii
My Outer Marker                               
cyrus n.

Show me to the light
I might be walking with palms open
Swayed by dark brown bottles
That hold up the sky like pillars,
The taut sky, stretched, nearly threadbare,
Nearly dry from the low note of this throaty dismissal
With the Cross dangling from it like blurry pinpricks.

I might be walking on sticks,
Snapping twigs beside this gravel tongue
That licks between the damp knees of hills
Towards the young folds of auburn fields
Boxed in by chaste hedges
And reprieved from the naked thrust of air.

You might find me there
Against a post
Leaving my mark,
Muttering a psalm,
Hoping calm prevails at my arrival.
I might wait there to catch a breath
Or perhaps even steal one
From the stoic push of patient death

Or I might just curse and spit and have a laugh
And maybe extend a thumb
Slumped against my outer marker
Waiting for the light to come.

cyrus n. ©2002