A gust of wind
breezes up from behind
and gently licks
the back of my neck
with a sweet caress,
urging me forward
toward the next stage
of evolution;
but I, never being
too much in a hurry,
spin around
in a quick shift
of fluid motion
and suck down
a large inhalation
of fresh air
deeply into my lungs,
holding the oxygen
at the core of my being,
feeling it flow
through the blood
and into my brain
where it snaps
dormant neurons
into a triggered sensation
of pure bliss.

The soothing salve
of Mother Nature
rekindles my passion,
and I dance
with a fervent
yet controlled rhythm,
completing the full rotation,
now taking
two steps at once
in the direction
of my destiny
which lies ahead
over the next horizon
calling from the distance
as a siren
to lure me back home
to the Source
where I can rest
at peace
as One.

---

A couple poems out today in the July issues of these publications:

3,2,1… – Burningword Literary Journal

To the Fascist Fundamentalist Editor – Yellow Chair Review

My blood is ignited,
my neurons are snap, crackle, popping,
my mind is on fire,
and my heart…
well, leave my heart out of this –
it’s not ready to join the flames,
not ready to sing and dance,
not ready to celebrate just yet.

My heart would rather hide away
and lick its wounds for awhile
as the sun sings with solar flares
and the sky burns with fervent passion.

This is a time of joy
but not of love.

This is a time of happiness
but not of peace.

It’s too much to ask
that every sign in the heavens
perfectly aligns
all in the same moment
as if the celestial spheres
were raining down miracles
with synchronistic flare,
so my lips will stay sealed
and my tongue will not let loose
with a single wish
to the stars above.

This accelerated high
has just enough juice
to propel the winds of change
and turn the tide in my favor,
so there is no need to beg
of the ocean’s peaking waves
to carry me all the way ashore.

My blood is a pyre,
my neurons are laser sharp,
my mind is crystal clear,
and my heart…
well, my heart can take
a backseat for awhile
and wait with patience
for the next opportunity to strike
while everything else in my life
continues to get better by the day.

---

A few poems out so far this week:

For Whom the Bell Lies – Dissident Voice

Front Page – Social Justice Poetry

Maple Syrup Sex Appeal – Cultured Vultures (won 1st place in Poem of the Week contest)

Selah,

Scott Thomas Outlar

Hello and welcome…
Allow me to introduce myself:
I am the all-engulfing
entropy
of existential darkness,
here to help you navigate
through the shadows
of your own psyche,
that you may flow
from out the confusion of chaos
into an emergent state of higher order.

I promise
that there is a light
on the other side of this tunnel,
but that doesn’t imply
that there won’t be
suffering and sorrow
every step of the way
as you are broken down
to the foundational core
and made to bear witness
the essence of your true being.

Such a journey is not sugarcoated
with roses, rainbows, cupcakes, and kittens,
but is guarded at every turn
with ghosts, goblins, vampires,
and the viciously terrifying memories
that scare you half to death,
haunt your dreams every night,
and hold you back
from your destiny
of reaching full actualization
as an individuated spark
of pure consciousness
born from the Source
and sent to this Earth
to push through the pain,
trek through the sludge,
and climb up the mountain
where the view from the peak
of the abyss you emerged from
will make every effort undertaken
that felt like torture along the way
seem absolutely worthwhile in the end.

Your two eyes are blind
to the truth of this existence,
but when they are closed
they shall be made anew
as One
to witness the apocalyptic fire
that burns righteously
at the center of your soul.

Your two ears are deaf
to the sweet sounds
of the celestial realm,
but when they are closed
the floodgates of harmonious music
shall be opened wide
to hear the song of the spheres
sung by the stars
to embed in your heart.

As above, so below,
on Earth as it is in Heaven.
Now pick up your feet
and get to stepping,
for the rewards of paradise
are reaped only by those
who are ready and willing
to go forth and harvest them
from out the black silence
where they are kept safe
for those with the guts to seek glory.

Black out
in the blind spots
of my boredom
where entropy whispers
mockingly
into the spaces of silence
that this is just no good…

if the end is near
then quit screwing around
and pull the bandages
so I can bleed out.

I always promise the world
but never seem to deliver,
and now Karma’s cruel kiss
is sending back
a lifetime of empty packages
all marked return to sender.

I came to this world
to set it on fire…
oh, goody, here’s a match…

I came to this table to feast
but every plate that gets served
is too rancid and raw
for my squeamish stomach
to hold down,
and the waves of nausea
are rocking the boat
out at sea
where sharks can sense
apathy and fear in the water.

A predator class
lurks in the shadows,
ready to release
a fresh dose
of unprincipled carnage
with a tide of chaos
sent to shore
to squash
the last ray of hope
in my calcified heart…

if this is the end
then quit fucking around
and pull the plug
so I can meet my maker.

There are a few words
I’d like to say
at the pearly gates
before I’m turned away
and sent to kiss the flames
that shall serve the role
of my lover unto eternity.

I came to this Earth
to douse it in salt…
time to reap what’s been sown.

I came to this fire
to dance in the pyre
with an ignition switch
primed for inferno…
it’s the last laugh…
it’s the final sip…
it’s the big flood…

ash to ash…
dust to dust…

I promised the world
but returned only dirt
in the end.

The seams of this plastic earth
will melt apart like cotton candy sugar
under a wax sun
when it’s time for the Big Shift
to take the old guard
under the parting sea to meet
the wrecked remains of Atlantis.

Version 2.0 hasn’t been a big hit
up here in the Kingdom
of a lackluster Empire
where rabid dogs bark orders
to mutts that march in lockstep
to the drumbeat of war
despite hazardous health conditions
and a lack of benefits
in the retirement package.

Compassion is a curse word
in the red zone,
and empathy is a silent scream –
raging loud but signifying nothing –
when apathy plays the role of just one more
trigger warning for the eternally brokenhearted
who weep like their own personal martyrs
upon any cross they happen to find
out in the blistering blitzkrieg desert heat
where they hop aboard and hang
until everyone in a thirty-three mile radius
comes along to boohoo with them
in some sort of cursed ceremony of the damned.

It’s a bullshit paradise
of make believe cognitive dissonance
where all the lemmings leap
right off the ledge
when ordered to do so
by the wolves who dress up
in sheepskin lingerie
when they are full of wicked intentions
to fuck over the competition
in a dog eat dog
fight to the death
where the winner receives a bloody biscuit
processed in a slave shop factory
across the dead black sea
where suicide nets hang heavy
to catch those who are too weary
to continue bleeding their veins
day after day
for a corporate monster
that pretends to be a master
while hiding behind ornamented curtains
like some powerful occult wizard
who slings feces in the face
of all the rational non-believers.

There are cracks in the system.
There are liars living in the tower.
There are no codes of regulation.
There is wormwood in the liver.
There is cancer in the brain.
But there is one hell of a big flood
heading this way
to reduce the skyscraper utopia
to rubble and ash
as the End of Days
makes its triumphant third-act splash
on the scene
with a director’s cut finale
sure to wipe the shit smug grins
off the face of all the bad apple actors
who have been pulling the strings
on a kabuki theater production
that’s destined to meet the maker soon
and pay for all the sins
that have tipped the karmic scales
to the point of no turning back.

Dust to dust for dry flaking bones
that lack the proper mineral composition
for long term survival
as they wind up face down in the gutter
where an open yawning grave
cuts its teeth and fills its belly
with a final decadent feast
upon the flesh of a fading disease
before entropy vomits forth the apocalypse
into a belching black hole of dissolution
and cancels out the credits,
as if anyone still gives a shit
after the final curtain drops.

---

A recorded version of this piece is available here on SoundCloud

Selah,

Scott Thomas Outlar

Thirty days have slowly passed by
since the last time
I turned the bottle up
and poured its sweet nectar
down my throat
as if I were trying to incite
the ancient essence of Dionysus
inside the blood coursing through my veins
in this decadent modern day and age.

But what was supposed to be
an action toward salvation
has seemed to hit a wall
while traveling ninety miles an hour
because the holes in my liver
aren’t getting any better
from the makeshift patchwork
bandages put in place,
and so my body worrisomely withers away
into an emaciated skeletal frame
with a spine that can’t stand straight
to face the sweltering heat
that sucks away at my skin
while the weighty heaviness
of this topsy-turvy world
continues to pound away
with a jackhammer
upon my weary mind.

But I’m not complaining,
I’m not bitching,
I’m not moaning, I’m not whining,
I’m just weeping acid tears
from the soiled ducts of my eyes
that have turned blind
to the compassionate love
which once flowed freely
through my open heart,
but now floats dead in the river
like a bloated fish
that is poisoned and paralyzed
by the constant stream of lies
that keep buzzing through my mind,
lurking like vultures
that wait for the final collapse of sanity
so they can have a carrion feast
upon the rotten flesh
of my decayed kidneys and spleen.

This life is but a dream,
but it’s feeling more and more
like a devilish nightmare ,
from which I cannot escape –
a prison with locked gates
which I pound upon
with tired, apathetic gestures of violence
until my palms are sore and torn,
bleeding from the knuckles
which once were white
but now bite back
with a scarlet crimson hue.

I’m tearing at the walls
like a caged animal
with a hard-on of hatred
for everything I’ve become
while wasting away alone
in this psychotic circus of my psyche,
all the while realizing full damn well
that even should I break free
and make my way
back out of the cave
where the shadows are always
offering their latest temptation
toward depression and despair,
I wouldn’t know how to behave
in what passes for civilized society,
or how to act
when faced with the normal
day to day decisions
that keep life turning
through each cycle of the sun.

So I’m just melting away
with wax wings
that never dared to fly,
never learned to soar,
and never cared to try
hard enough to rise
to the Elysium heights
where the gods wait
atop the rainbow peaks of Valhalla
for those rare souls
who have the strength and courage
to keep fighting through the bullshit
of ho-hum doldrums
as they play out one by one
in these days of a life
that slip by like sand
through the sieve of a clenched fist
that wanted desperately
to hold something great
but winds up empty every time
with naught but salt in the wounds
and sorrow in the spaces
that make up the hollow hours
which tick by like thick molasses,
draining down the broken sky
to poison another dry well
that I’m running toward in the desert
as I chase the latest mirage
in this life filled with illusions
while trying my best to hold out hope
that things will get better with day thirty-one.

The oil fields
are on fire
in an Apocalyptic blaze,
but the gasoline
still flows freely
from a million pumps
into a billion cars
that suck greedily
upon the teat
of a black gold feast,
guzzling petrol by the gallon
to serve rush hour needs
in a fast paced world,
before belching
the acidic fumes
into an increasingly cloudy sky,
poisoning the atmosphere
with a haze of smog
that hangs heavily
over all our heads
like an ominous bomb
ready to drop
its load of doom at any minute
to prove the theory
that nature
always gets the last laugh;
and fools
only quicken their pace
toward an already yawning grave
that doesn’t need any help
but sure as hell
won’t turn down the assistance
in filling the plot with bones,
covering them over with dirt,
and spinning the next cycle
in a give and take process
toward a fossilized future
laid to rest and waste.

Paradise

of dark chocolate plasma

Melting

into a pool of liquid chaos

Short circuit

the hard-wired system

Collapse

back into primordial soup

The sun is singing

with a Revelation fever

The harbinger awaits

heralding Apocalyptic fortune

Entropy

of neon pulsing absolution

Crashing

into a black hole horizon

Ignite

the future techno gadget

Resolve

these sins of apathy

The sirens are calling

from the far side of the sea

Jagged rocks await

those who dare to take the voyage

I walk to the local park,

make my way into the woods,

and sit on this same bench

nearly every day of late,

where I look to my left

and see the heart

that was carved into the trunk of a tree

at some point in the past.

I think about the happy couple

that branded their initials

into the bark,

wondering if they still feel the same

about each other today

as they did back then,

or if, like most love,

the passion faded

as their time together passed.

Chemical lust is a pulsing fire

of white hot light

that rages without reason

through the heart and mind

of those who fall under its spell,

but the staying power of true love

requires a steadfast will

that only a rare breed

are able to manage and maintain.

I’ve felt such flames

a time or two myself

while making my way

through this strange journey called life,

but in the end it always seems

that my fiery blood

fizzles out after being doused

by the water from a heavy storm.

Feeling lonely in a world

that is populated

by over seven billion other people

is a bizarre sensation, no doubt,

but at least I have the comfort

of these trees to keep me company,

along with a bit of shade

from the sweltering Summer sun

that is always trying to burn

the truth into my eyes.