Conservation Gargoyle
—Poems by Scott Outlar, Chattanooga, TN
—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA
SYSTEM SHIFT
Blood-stained glass
drizzles down a cutthroat sky
in a dog-eat-dog
paradise gone slightly awry
with subtle shifts
toward apocalyptic fervor
when the truth can’t get a word in
edgewise
at the broken angle
where the angels gather
to dance on pin tops
and scream to the heavens
with their symphony of the stars
Calling out the sun’s rage
to get a taste of quick fire
filling the veins with magma
pulsing the earth with temptations
to blow the top off
and get a cheap thrill big cheer
from the oil-drenched system
as it falls by the wayside
making room for some fresh growth
where all the weeds
have been gathering for ages
awaiting the opportunity to flourish
in a world gone to pot
once the bones are laid to rest
(first pub. in Dead Snakes)
PILLAR OF SALT
Into the Holy Land
The fertile crescent
The Genesis patch
The garden where the snakes dwell…
Into the arid desert
Where depleted uranium smog suffocates the city
Where primitive ideas chokehold the species
Where maniacs wield their ancient swords…
…To bomb it all to hell
Lot's Wife
BLOODY GENES
Barefoot in bed
with Pinot Noir
to flood the veins
Ancient and rare
back to Dionysus
for the fire
Hang on the cross
bloody and bruised
wait for the solstice
Kissed on the cheek
don’t believe
they’re here to help you
Sell your cloak
buy a sword
the time is nigh
Like a thief
in the night
karma never misses
Memories of Atlantis
Angels and Nephilim
the flood will come
No Buddha raft
no God-sent ark
two by two to drown
The primal soup
gene swarm collision
collective rises steadily
A primal roar
up on the mountain
warns the herd
Kingdom of wolves
red-stained cloth
empire of fangs
(first pub. in Record-webzine)
NO FREE PASSES
There is nothing new under the sun,
especially on a morning when the clouds
turn the world a shade of gray,
blotting out all sense of warmth
as the skin becomes blistered and fragile
against the sharpness of Winter’s bite.
One more step closer
to the yawning grave
that waits with perfect patience.
Everyone will die in the end.
The reaper has no worries
while going about such a simple job.
Batting a thousand with pinpoint precision.
He just hit another one out of the park.
There is no way to pitch around this guy.
There is nothing new under the sun,
especially on a morning when the clouds
turn the world a shade of gray,
blotting out all sense of warmth
as the skin becomes blistered and fragile
against the sharpness of Winter’s bite.
One more step closer
to the yawning grave
that waits with perfect patience.
Everyone will die in the end.
The reaper has no worries
while going about such a simple job.
Batting a thousand with pinpoint precision.
He just hit another one out of the park.
There is no way to pitch around this guy.
CREEPING WANTONNESS
The day of my death?
Or maybe just a deep sleep—
That wantonness toward oblivion
creeps over my soul
and calls out for annihilation
I feel like I’ve been pushing myself
toward what I don’t want
so I can crash hard
and find what I truly need
I feel like I’ve been running myself
to the point of exhaustion
so I can collapse
and wake up resurrected
I feel like I have absolutely nothing
left to give,
and so now I know
that I’m only just getting started
I feel like the thought of death
is my true best friend,
but because my thoughts are always wrong,
it must mean that life is the highest truth
I could ever possibly reach
STILL BIRTH
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…
(first pub. in Dead Snakes)
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The poet is the priest of the invisible.
—Wallace Stevens
________________________
Many thanks to Scott Outlar and Katy Brown for today's fine cookin' in the Kitchen!
Frank Graham posted the following helpful tips on Facebook's Poetry in Davis page: Listen to Dr. Andy Jones Poet's Poetry and Technology Hour on KDVS, FM 90.3, from 5-6pm today (Wednesday) on your way to hear Joshua McKinney give a free public talk on T.S. Eliot's craft at 7pm in McKinley Park, 601 Alhambra Blvd., Sac. [at the Writing with the Great 20th Century American Poets series of workshops]. Conclude your evening with some excellent spoken word poetry at 9pm at the Mahogany Urban Poetry Series at Queen Sheeba Ethiopian Restaurant at 17th and Broadway in Sacramento.
Note also that Dr. Andy Jones will be hosting Lynn Freed at the Poetry in Davis reading series tomorrow (Thursday), at the John Natsoulas Gallery in Davis, 521 First St, 8pm.
—Medusa
—Anonymous Photo
