Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa where links to his published poetry, essays, and fiction can be found. There is also a page with an extensive list of literary venues, as well as a page dedicated to the work of contemporary writers and artists. Scott's chapbook "Songs of A Dissident" is forthcoming in January 2016 through Transcendent Zero Press. You can connect with Scott at 17Numa, and as well on Twitter and Facebook.

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Positive Vibes

(off-key)

dossier on the nuclear shutdown/Red-furied light

                                                                     (again?)

Broken extremes or realigned opposites combining

crash-site recommissioned.  New leadership.  Relics

Blind ambition w/o oversight.

Tear ducts removed, dislocated, misplaced

emotional drought; to not get up

Finality.  Absolution.  The follow through

Sacred rites.  Hormonal overdrive.  Sexual spirituality

Crash course in the finer abstractions.

Broken wheels.  Flooded combustion chamber.

Insanity and loathing.  Declining the fear.

The flow is instantaneous.  Free gliding.

Massacre in the sky.  War from above.

Taken to the depths.

The mind fuck.  The brain leak.

Consciousness expanded through abuse.

Spaced out white lightning.  The final template on

which to draw (or to draw from).

Into the heart of any disaster.  Rescue teams.

Putting puzzles back together.  The form of chaos.

The drop of a hat.  The birth of Nations.

Drugged, asleep, cocoon of peace/Rest/disillusion

A world of our own creation.

***

Back into the Blue

Back into the blue with layers of violet purple

velvet lining lacing the open propaganda

which marches in waves along with the Lenin Tides,

calling out the crony corporate commercialized campaign.

Market hideout, sold down,

outsourced, brokenhearted

fallout from the language which was lost in transit

gets stuck in traffic; are you angry?

Why not call out this frantic fervor posthaste with disdain?

Judgment begins lapsing until it’s sorely lacking in our own reflections.

The Gurus in the Streets are filled with holiness;

follow not, but listen closely

on moonless nights as they spill a sad, cold story

while stars shine and the wind whips with bitter biting

snowflake marks; questions wither

away and then spring back again toward a renewed destination.

Formulation of the altered presentation needs a big close

with curtains falling and missiles launching to the other side of the moon.

The alley cats are called out to howl in the shadow spaces.

The lamb and the sheep

are spotted by the owl, which no longer sleeps

but stays up late at night to scout in the street.

I heard him but did not weep,

so powerful was his speech that there was no need.

Constant cravings of the catastrophic thieves

are stolen, or, perhaps, borrowed as they beg; just plead

the fifth against these warped

injustices in criminal courts; a capital

crisis, a plutocracy, an oligarchy, a river of bureaucratic stagnant molasses.

A serum of syrup drained from his brain;

it tasted like pancakes from God.

The greatest gift I ever received came that night,

and for this I thank the Guru of the Street.