Ascension Gets Drowned in the Undertow

My piece Ain’t That Sweet won first place in the poem of the week contest at Cultured Vultures today. That’s cool. I also had four poems accepted at Expound Magazine for future publication. That’s cool. None of it puts any cash in my wallet or helps to fill the existential hole in the core of my burnt out soul. Nothing ever will, actually. That’s just the way this game gets played. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles. These are the cards I’ve been dealt. So it is. So it goes. I’m not complaining. Hell, I was ready to cash out ten years ago before I even dove headfirst into this writing kick. So this part of life is just my lounge act. I’m just hanging around for whatever spoils might come my way in the future. Would I like to help usher in the Renaissance Revolution of the Phoenix Generation? Of course. Would I like to meet a perfect woman and pass on the millions of years worth of ancestral DNA that I’m carrying within my loins? Sure. Am I going to get all bent out of shape about such things one way or the other? Nah. I’ve pretty much reached the point of cool detachment where I realize that a thing happens in life, then the next thing happens, then the next thing happens, etc. It all is what it is. Everything that has ever occurred throughout the entire history of creation has led to this exact moment right now. So why should I worry too much about it? At least I’m alive. At least I get to experience this furthest point of evolution. At the cusp. On the edge. Near abyss. Ready to dive and hit the rocks. Or jump and catch the next plateau. Whichever way the wind blows. I act flippant and nonchalant, but the truth is I have big goals. I want it all…and then some. But even that won’t satisfy me. The dragon can never be caught. My desires are unquenchable. My fire will never burn out. My love is a bloody ember upon the dying coals. My hatred is a black night that never sees another sun. My soul is an open wound that has no ¬†desire to heal. My truth is a false impression. My ash is the dust. My dust is the clay. My mold is the new beginning. My transgressions are unholy. My sin is of the flesh. My transcendence has been put on permanent delay. My ascension got drowned in the flood’s undertow. I swallowed the sea. I drank every bottle. I poured the wine into my open veins. I kissed the black tar as it scraped against my best intentions. I fucked off with all the failures of my past. I embraced the coming storm. I opened wide. I drank deeply of the coming high tide. I got tired. I laid down. I set it all alight. I laughed in the face of the madness. I stoked the rebellion just to get a fresh vibe. I got tired of it all and finally collapsed. But not to my knees in prayer. More of a fetal position to bring about an encore to the last rite I remember before this oxygen came into my lungs and fucked everything to hell. Back to source one day…but for now I’ll keep playing the game.


Scott Thomas Outlar

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