Bring On Your Best Shot...

Scott Thomas Outlar, Atlanta, GA

AND I'LL BRING MINE
—Scott Thomas Outlar, Atlanta, GA

Bring on the war
Bring on the terror
Bring on the fire
Bring on the flood
Evolution is ready
for a swift kick
in the ass
in the teeth
down the throat
to the guts of primordial ooze
to the swamp of original gene swarm
where the future is created
from out the ashes of the past
Bring on the violence
Bring on the maddened mobs
Bring on the storm
Bring on the quake
Forward movement demands
there be a shake-up
in society
in the environment
throughout all time and space
back to the genesis point
back to the one true core
where the source implosively sucks in a final breath
only to exhale a fresh Big Bang explosion
Bring on the scattered atoms
Bring on the scurrying ants
Bring on the mass upheaval
Bring on the marching lemmings
Bring on your best shot…

 Lion of OC, Laguna Niguel

—Photo by Stacie Sherman, Orangevale, CA

 THE THIN LINE
—Scott Thomas Outlar

People act so polite,
wearing their civil mask attire.
“How are you?” as she scans each item.
“Fine, fine, and you?” as he pulls out his card.
But should those shelves
one day be empty,
and should those bellies
one day be growling,
how soon it shall be
before niceties are left in the store
while war rages in the streets
over the simple necessities of survival.

_______________________

MAKING THE GRADE
—Scott Thomas Outlar

A cacophony of whispered whimpers
roars hard into their silence,
kissing the backhanded caress
of a careless gesture
that staples shut all shrieks of terror.
We must be quiet, here,
under the stairs that lead to heaven—
meant to be torn down eons ago,
yet rediscovered in our wayward travels
while traversing the crisscrossed
candy cane ornamentation of deliverance which
was whitewashed by the blackout
of Holy Spirit rejuvenation flare-ups
in our hearts, in our minds, in our souls.
A slippery, shallow wet spot
on the bottom rung—
careful there, lest it be our downfall
before this test of willpower
truly begins in earnest.
Halfway up the spiraling silicon ladder,
resistance to the goal eases—
fluffy cotton puffs in the sky
with contrail precipitation for dessert;
stuffed fat on the final feast
and now ready for the eternal rest
much ballyhooed in promises from the top.
Onward, upward, one foot and then the next,
a lifetime of regrets
shedding like snakeskin and plummeting
back down to the garden—
our weightless, timeless, eternal, haloed ghosts
now enter safely unto the final goal.

 Sweet Stairs, Laguna Niguel

—Photo by Stacie Sherman

 A LITTLE PIECE OF PARADISE
—Scott Thomas Outlar
 
The crashing waves of time’s elapsing elegance
wash over the lazy past of loneliness,
carrying forth the undertow verdict
and placing its spasm-smashed hammer of truth
upon the shell-caked shoreline
where a new day can begin in earnest.
Cross pattern wind currents
blow in from the east passage,
synchronizing with salt-soaked air
that sweats out all reminders
of the would’ve, could’ve, should have
variety.
All focus phase shifts to the one point,
humming electrically in the inner ear
under a coconut tree
whose nutrients will carry this age aloft.
Smooth sailing now for the stranded.

______________________

A WINTER GOOD-BYE
—Scott Thomas Outlar

A blanket of fur
for your recovery
layered in angel dust
to bring the miracle
Hold the last breath
tightly
clinging
don’t let that life escape
It’s only eternity
locked up in this moment
It’s only the last time
I’ll ever see you
because a blanket of fur
cannot save you
from a Winter wound
that never heals

 Public Bath, Capistrano

—Photo by Stacie Sherman

 JANUARY 1, 2015
—Scott Thomas Outlar

So it begins
again
on down the line—
Enter the cycle—
It ever circles—
I don’t know wh—
I stopped trying
to figure it out
or pretend
that I care
long ago,
a few spins
around the sun
back in time—
Just take the truth
as it unravels
in its constant
revelations,
one at a time
on down the line—
Some things
remain the same—
Some things
change—
So what?
Who are you?
Who am I?
Another year—
Another dollar—
Another riddle—
Another toss
of the dice—
What remains the same is
that I always play to win—
What changes is
that it will eventually happen—

_____________________

Scott Thomas Outlar burst forth from the womb of primordial ooze with thoughts of Renaissance, Revolution and Revelation careening across the newly enlivened neuron synapses of his consciousness.  He has survived both the fire and the floods—now he dances in celebration while waiting on the next round of chaos to commence.  Otherwise, he lives a relatively simple life in the suburbs outside Atlanta, spending his time reading, researching, taking meditative walks, gazing at stars, laughing at life's existential nature, flowing and fluxing with the River Tao, and writing prose-fusion poetry dedicated to the Phoenix Generation.  His work has appeared recently in venues such as Dissident Voice where he contributes regularly, Dead Snakes, The Kitchen Poet, Black Mirror Magazine, The Chaffey Review, and Halcyon Magazine.  Scott can be reached at 17Numa@gmail.com. Welcome to the Kitchen, Scott!
 

____________________

Today's LittleNip:
 
When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.

—John F. Kennedy

____________________

—Medusa

 Child's Play, Capistrano

—Photo by Stacie Sherman