This hat was worn by Johnny,
and my Father loved Johnny –
who taught him how to fire a gun
and took him to the woods.

I never met Johnny;
he was dead long
before my time,
but I’ve worn his hat now
for twenty-five years or so.

I wore it in the woods
as a kid
while pretending to be
Indiana Jones.

I wore it to the store
to buy ink
when I needed to
print the first copy
of an early book
I wrote.

I wore it to
my Father’s funeral; now
both he and Johnny
are gone.

But I’ll keep
wearing the hat
because I loved
my Father,
and that seems to be
the way
this thing goes.

---

This poem originally appeared on Christmas Day of last year at The Camel Saloon. It was the first Christmas spent without my Father since his passing last February. I miss him dearly, but also know that he would be proud of the path my life is on at this point. I use the sadness of missing my best friend to propel my absolute drive toward success forward. One day I’ll write a proper post dedicated to the best man I’ve ever known, but for now such words are still being written in my mind.

I learned that The Camel Saloon closed up shop recently. That venue was always a hard nut for me to crack. In fact, this is the only poem that was ever accepted there. So it goes.

The August issue of Ygdrasil was released today. I have two poems included which you can read at this link; if you are so inclined, of course.

Anyone who has any critiques, compliments, concerns, or suggestions of any kind, please leave me a comment here on the blog. I’m still in the early phases of getting this site up and running, but I have big plans for the future…

Come connect with me on Facebook and Twitter. I’d love to stay in touch with everyone.

Selah,

Scott Thomas Outlar

The homeless poet
stood outside the bar
in the cold
talking to anyone
who would listen.

He held a stack of papers
in his hands
that he gave away
to anyone who showed
the slightest interest.

He said they were free,
but anyone with half a heart
would give him a buck or two,
or at least some coins,
just enough for a cup of coffee.

He was a guru
in his own peculiar way,
and his words
were laced with a type
of apocalyptic strangeness –
full of velvet angels
with dark chocolate wings
receding down from heaven
to punish the normal
and bring chaos to the meek.

He was all mixed up inside,
but that was his role to play,
and it was all perfect,
and it was all beautiful –
whether he found a bed,
or whether he died in the street,
it was all ok,
because the angels were coming either way.

---

This poem originally appeared in the recent Summer issue of Belle Reve Literary Journal.

It is based on a man I met a few times on the streets of Atlanta back in late 2009. I enjoyed talking to the guy, though his mind was slightly cracked after years of living on the streets. He is the only other person I’ve ever met who spoke about The Renaissance Revolution, which has been an archetypal concept growing in my heart for over a decade.

I wrote around thirty stream of consciousness poems over the next few nights after my initial encounter with the man…whose name was Craig now that I think back on it. Ten or so of those poems have been published in the past year. In fact, “Manifestations of Heat” was just recently accepted by Clockwise Cat for the upcoming October issue. That period back in late 2009 was a time in my life full of wild synchronicity and magic. It helped open my mind up to the larger mystery of consciousness, and to tap in more fully to the alignment of where the energies of heaven and earth converge. That, however, is a post for another time…

Selah,

Scott Thomas Outlar

We’re all looking
for something better
than what we are;
something deeper
than what we’ve felt;
something stronger
than what we’ve sensed;
something more honest
than what we’ve
been telling ourselves;
something more steady;
something more calm;
something more real
than what we’ve experienced;
something that never
winds up hurting us
in the end;
something sweet
that isn’t addictive;
something alive
that doesn’t die on us;
something powerful
that never loses its grace;
something that never runs dry;
something that never talks back;
something that comforts us
when we are hurt;
something that understands
the existential pain;
something that does not lack
in the moments
when we need it most;
something that is brave
when we are full of fear;
something that fits the bill;
something that naturally
smiles for the camera
without having to fake the cheese;
something rich without pretension;
something high without a kite.

---

This poem originally appeared at Dissident Voice in December of 2014. I’ve been writing a weekly poem there for around ten months now. You can check out my archive at this link.

Also, feel free to check out the Poems page here on my blog to find links to nearly 400 pieces I’ve published in the past year.

I’d love to connect with you on Twitter and Facebook.

If you’re so inclined, please leave me a comment…let me know what you think of this blog. Any suggestions, critiques, compliments, or concerns are most certainly welcome.

Selah,

Scott Thomas Outlar

Flip the switch
on the sun

welcome to
entropy 101

where darkness
is the flavor of the month

and one taste
is never enough

Consumed
by the shadow’s mask

ever lurking
in the corners of the psyche

embrace
the kiss of the fall

before you walk
better learn how to crawl

---

Links to some of the poems that have been published in the past few days:

Untitled/Entitled – Section 8 Magazine (print only)

The Way It Is – Your One Phone Call

Murder Inc. – Dissident Voice

Burns Hot for Evolution – Harbinger Asylum (print only)

July 11/12 – experiential-experimental-literature

A Song unto the Ages – Medusa’s Kitchen

Comes the Omega with the Dawn – Medusa’s Kitchen

Bring a Blowtorch – Medusa’s Kitchen

Fleeting – Medusa’s Kitchen

Harvest the Summer – Medusa’s Kitchen

There is Nothing More to Say – Medusa’s Kitchen

Unto the Silence – The Poet Community

---

Anyone who enjoys my work and would like to stay in touch can follow these links to connect with me on Facebook and Twitter.

Selah,

Scott Thomas Outlar

My sound sleep is suddenly stolen
as I’m violently shocked awake
by a screeching source of confusion,
shattering the crystalline visions
of a peaceful paradisiacal dreamscape
where I had been safely stationed in hiding
as I sought the faceless beauty
of an unknown angel
from the other side
who could possibly fall
from the graceful arms of heaven
and save my sinful soul
from this dualistic rift
that constantly creates a schism
between the warring hemispheres
in the back of my brain.

Now the maddening echoes of the chaos fields
reverberate with pulses of white lightning
through the closing circle
of my slashed consciousness,
corrupting the cycle of dreams
and disrupting the circadian rhythms of my rest
while rupturing my spirit
with a knife to the side of my psyche
as the Judas Goat offers a final betrayal
and ushers me unceremoniously
back to the here and now of this broken reality.

A silent crash whistles through the window,
singeing the humid night air with an ominous warning
whispered from the trickster gods of this perilous world,
painfully piercing the tortured memories of a thousand almosts
and a million not quites
that still linger in the spaces of blacked out truth
that I refuse to face head on;
and so I cover my head and cower in bed,
tossing and turning as the lies
sing their circus song of despair,
waiting for the blissful release of sleep
to once again wash over
and return me to the realm
where all such concerns simply melt away
and vanish
as swirling abstractions
of a life forgotten
on the far side of the looking glass.

---

This piece was written as a response to multiple Twitter prompts which I’ve been having fun with for the past couple of weeks now.

Many thanks to all the hosts at these fine challenges (#MadVerse, #ashverse, #ntitle, #ShapePoetry, #ThePaths, and #POETHEME), as well as the many others who I’ve been writing with of late.

Selah,

Scott Thomas Outlar

Oh, come on now,
who doesn’t like
a little genetically modified,
poisoned,
pesticide sprayed,
herbicide laced,
unripened,
hydrogenated,
processed,
frozen,
fried pile of
high fructose slop
disguised as food
and plopped
on their lunch plate?

How can you have any pudding
if you don’t eat your meat?

Only the best
for our kids –
after all,
We’re Number One!
(with a bullet
and an empire)

Now stop complaining,
stand up straight,
stare at the flag,
place hand over heart,
and pledge your allegiance
to God and country.

---

This poem originally appeared back in March in the social justice newsletter Dissident Voice where I’ve been publishing a poem each Sunday for the past ten months.

This piece is a comment not only on the type of disgusting, processed, nutrient-void slop that is served to the school children, but about the basic choices that the average adult makes everyday when it comes to what they put into their body.

The old cliche, “You are what you eat,” is essentially spot on.

If you put cooked, dead, overly processed, chemically laden, artificially laced, toxic garbage into your body, the result is most likely going to be cloudy thinking, poor health, and an endless cycle of trips to the doctor getting prescribed symptom-suppressing medications that perpetuate a downward spiral.

The more you choose clean, natural, organic, nutrient-dense, electrically charged, high vibration, easily digestible foods, the healthier and more radiant your life will become.

And with that little commentary out of the way, I’ll get back down off my soapbox, place my bare feet upon the earth, take a deep breath, smile from ear to ear, and finish by saying this: Do whatever you want, eat whatever you want, live however you want…just know that their are natural laws of biology and chemistry at work in this universe, and every choice you make either works with or against said laws.

Selah,

Scott Thomas Outlar

In the end
all that matters
is the final poem
that pours forth
from the last lips
left living on earth
as the black smog
suffocates…everything.

It matters not
that no one will survive to read the words.

It matters only
that they were written,
that they were felt,
that they were experienced,
that they were born…

---

This poem originally appeared at the poetry site Dead Snakes earlier this year.

---

As I was searching Google looking for an image to post with this piece, I typed in the words “the end.” After looking at about fifty different versions, the word “end” began to look very funny to me. I’ll never be able to look at it the same. I think there’s something subtly significant about that statement in an existential sort of way, but I’ll be damned if I can figure it out right now.

Blackbirds envelop the green grass
across the street
early in the morning,
moving together in a cluster of fluttering wings.
I shift my position in bed
to gain a better view,
now squatting and looking out the window
as the dark wave gains a new tide
and comes shrieking and soaring as one blanket mass
straight toward me.

For a brief moment I fear
the yawning grave is finally calling me
back to the dust, dirt and ash
from whence I once came,
but then, in unison, the wave breaks,
the aggressive wings grow calm, and
the swarm settles down
as it lands now in my front yard.

I exhale and smile.
The beauty of chaos shifts
as order is reclaimed in my respite –
the reaper has granted my reprieve;
and though I know he will surely
one day come hunting for me,
whether it be with a merle of blackbirds,
a murder of crows,
a wake of vultures,
or one-on-one, all alone, with his scythe in hand,
at least for now I can lay back
safely and soundly in my warm bed,
knowing that while I dream about the future,
it will be the worms, outside in the cold,
that serve as today’s sacrifice to the cycle.

---

This poem was written back in January of this year, and it is one of the pieces included in my debut chapbook “A Black Wave Cometh” which was released in a digital version by Dink Press a few months ago. The chapbook is available through Etsy at this link.

I will take this
to the core
of the marrow
where chaos is married
to an emerging order
so we may find
the structure
to satisfy desires
of both flesh and soul
in this strange world
where suffering
somehow leads to joy
and all the pain
tests the limit
until pleasure is reached

I will fade out
in the night
like a sun
that no longer burns
but folds up shop
in disintegration
toward entropy
and dissolution
in this dying cosmos
where each breath
is a blessing
and each kiss
is a lesson
unto the grave

---

This is a poem that originally appeared at Stephen Jarrell Williams’ site Dead Snakes back in June of this year. I’ve been publishing at Dead Snakes nearly once a week for the past seven months. Stephen was one of the first editors to give me a regular forum to share my work. Along with Angie Tibbs at Dissident Voice who has allowed me to contribute a weekly Sunday poem now for the past ten months. Guy Farmer at The Poet Community is another editor that comes to mind who has been very kind toward my writing. Although I haven’t been publishing essays recently, I should also mention that Davi Barker at The Daily Anarchist was also very supportive of my work in the beginning. I’ve been fortunate to make some sound connections in this first year of publishing, and plan on making many more as the journey continues.

---

Anyone interested in staying connected with me and my writing can do so by sending me a friend request on FB or by following me on Twitter @17Numa.

Selah,

Scott Thomas Outlar