Stealing Time

Monument

—Poems by Scott Thomas Outlar, Atlanta, GA

—Poems by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

FOUR CHAMBER MESSAGE
 
I can smell the smoke from here.
Karma licked my wounds sixteen times,
sent me spinning through black orbits.

Now all I need
is one more little lie
whispered from your precious lips
to help complete the cycle.

Wet tongues offer sweet salvation,
and our love overpowered lust.
I forgot the meaning of God.

I can hear the strain, the crack,
the flood, the flow,
the bleeding from broken sieve.

Four chambers bite
with a metal gasp;
you ignite my flesh
as carbon creates the first sign of something sacred.

The vowels of heaven are humming,
and Dionysus always blessed our dance.
I forgot the pathway to peace.

I can taste the burn of liquid cancer.
Fingers spark at the point of contact,
metastasized and melting back to void.

Amber stains and dragon’s breath
chase away the smile
worn stoically on sleeve
when the high feels mighty healthy.

Bright eyes burn red with the sun,
and our home was always near to heart.
I forgot the grace of hallelujah.

 Alas, Poor Yorick...

FLUSHING AWAY THE FEAR FROM YOUR EYES

This poem was born from silence and tear gas in the streets
An ocean of clouds and a river of blood
(weep with the waves of crashing entropy)

This world was born from chaos and confusion
A gene swarm soup and open yawning graves
(but I still love you anyway)

This war was born from bullets and bombs
A triggered grenade and patience to hold the pin
(explosions ignite in my trembling hands)

This glass was born from a wellspring of wine
Bacchanalian dances in a field flush with poppies
(guide me through your visions please)

This music was born from a symphony of stars
An eclipse of the sun and a signal from Mars
(falling from grace before finally being saved)

This cancer was born from blackened cells and cigarette stains
A wisp of chemical smoke and a numb fading pain
(teach my lungs about fresh air in the woods)

This child was born from sex, flesh, and sweat
A dream in the night and a seed of fire in our bed
(hold to the light as a spirit ascends)

This miracle was born from whispers and prayers
A tease of your tongue and aching apple eyes
(fruition of God when I took a bite)

This garden was born from a snake and a sword
A hissing white lie and a symbol of choice
(turning our backs to the gates of the horde)

This truth was born from salvation and trust
A deep-seated faith and passionate lust
(signs on the path read heaven or bust)

This peace was born from the calm after storm
A surrender of sin and one last moment to mourn
(addiction to hope is the pact that I’ve sworn)

 Skull and Bottle

RHYME AND REASON
(Doesn’t Require Your Latest Brilliant Opinion)

Is that hawk screaming
about whether or not
it believes in the existence of God?
Or simply seeking
across the distance
with a signal for its lover?

Is that blade of grass
straining against gravity
to grow taller toward the sky?
Or allowing its roots
below the ground
to do their business behind the scenes?

Is that cloud concerned
about bunkers being built
in fear of bombs?
Or being carried carefree
by a gentle breeze
blowing through the air?

Is that star all bent out of shape
over the latest debate
raging on cable news?
Or shining as a beacon of light
to more galaxies
than can be fathomed?

Is that leaf throwing a fit
about cold weather
as the season begins to shift?
Or brightening the woods
with a brilliant autumn hue
before falling back to the soil?

Is that wave cursing at the moon
about the way in which
it’s made to move?
Or crashing upon the shore
with a splash to fulfill
its natural fate of ebb and flow?


(prev. pub. on Dissident Voice)

 Broken Stone

STEPPING STONES
 
When you place your foot
carefully
upon the head
of a treacherous snake,
the venomous fangs
sink deeply
into its own lower lip
as the script
gets flipped
with a squish.

Watch the wretched beast
convulse under the weight
of its own
self-destructive urges;
decadence
serves as a sign
that all the lies
have finally caught up.

A final fit
gets thrown in the garden
as the past
withers and decays,
no longer
having any say
in the perfect fate
that opens narrowly
along the path
toward a brighter future.

A shedding of skin
as the truth ascends,
laying waste
to every attempted
bite of betrayal.

 Prayer

DROP IT LIKE IT’S HOT (TOPICS)
 
Here is my climate,
changing by the moment,
swirling around a red center,
ready for release…

Little slivers
of Lucy’s diamonds
started spilling
all over the floor
into puddles
stained with blood.

Shipped across the sea
seven days a week
to fleece the fools
on every front.

You can have all the jewels back
to bathe in blood,
along with (most of) your greed.

I just want a million … or two … (for now).

This is
the most sacred moment,
resting between
the beats of your heart
after the lungs
have already expired.

Let me see you smile
(this is me begging)
one last time
(and pleading)
so I can remember you
(and praying)
three years later
(and screaming)
as the same man
(and howling)
that I knew all that time before
(at the sun/as your son).

The future has come
whether you’re ready or not,
firing at will,
regardless of God’s wishes.

Humanity,
in all its infinite wisdom,
freely decided long ago
to burn
this building down.

That’s why we’re here,
carrying a pail of water,
as the new age cycles
with a promise of peace on earth
(for those who truly seek it).

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

PROMETHEUS SHOULD HAVE
DOUBLED DOWN FOR MORE
—Scott Thomas Outlar
 
Sitting here
where the sky falls,
where the rain pours,
where the gods weep,
where the season shifts,
where the air growls,
where electric wonder
becomes second nature,
I can only smile
as my spine shivers
from a kundalini force
that packs a punch.

Breathe into me
with your sacred whisper
as my bones shake,
as my flesh sighs,
as my blood churns,
as my hope soars,
as my dreams scream,
as my heart opens
to the sound of your voice,
and I will promise
eternity and more
even if I must steal time
straight from the source.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Scott Thomas Outlar for today’s fine feast of poetry, and to Katy Brown for her equally fine feast of fotos! 

 —Anonymous Silliness

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