Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Scott Thomas Outlar and the Entropy of the Harbinger's Cackle

Bloody on Both Ends

I fell in love with a future
that didn’t quite make it out of the womb;

scissors went straight to the throat
like the dagger placed in my side.

She said it’d be easier this way
as I stumbled to the edge of the pier;

I fell deep into the clear blue
just looking for somewhere to come clean.

Private Viewing

They tied me here
and rode away
that I may waste alone
at the edge of world’s abyss
to watch the coming storm
as gray clouds ominously merge
to form a blackness as dark as the reaper’s cloak
Zigzag bolts of electric anger
singe the evening air
with crackling anticipation
of a flood, a fire, a tragedy, a miracle

My eyes close briefly
as exhaustion sets in –
my body worn down
my mind a puddle of mush –
but shots of roaring thunder
jerk me back awake
that I may serve my sentenced fate
and watch the approaching storm
as it gathers ghastly momentum
Rushing forward with swift precision
the hammer of karma is being delivered
with a shot, a shout, a scream,
a maniacal laugh, a harbinger’s cackle
The final respite draws near

The calm is eerie
in the eye of the storm
The devastation on the front end
left the world in bloody ruins
though I know
a fate much worse still lies ahead
With every agonizing breath
I’m forced to anticipate
the hellish violence
that will soon be unleashed
by the horsemen and angels of death
who tied me here
to force this wretched catastrophic viewing

If this is Revelation
then I don’t want any part of it
I witness the heavens crack open
but no savior rides in
to stop the carnage being wrought
It’s all the Devil’s due being taken this day
raped and torn and twisted
back to ash and dirt and dust
If this is the Second Coming
the picture is certainly not as pretty
as we’d been led to believe in the pews
No pearly gates, no gold paved streets,
no family reunion, no crown, no throne
It’s all brimstone charcoal chaos
from where I’m sitting

Finally let loose in the wasteland
as my binds are removed
by the same crows
that plucked my eyes out earlier
after they’d seen the final moments
of a once great creation fall in ruins
The arid earth is smoldering and sizzling
beneath my charred bare skin
My flesh melts in agony as I crawl
along toward nowhere and nothing
A nomad in the furnace with
no water, no well, not even a mirage
I’ve seen my last vision, it would seem

Mr. Rosy

Every clever turn of phrase,
every perfect point of view,
every lesson learned in time,
every hardship overcome through will,
every snapshot picture captured,
every first kiss goose bump fever,
every sweet dream lullaby,
every test aced,
every challenge bested,
every urge toward evolution,
every ancestral DNA passed forward,
every mountain scaled,
every ocean swam across,
every rise from the ashes,
every new vintage of wine bottled,
every cycle around the sun,
every burst womb with crying babe,
every close embrace on the dance floor,
every pillow talk session that heals a soul,
every sunrise,
every solar eclipse,
every full moon,
every flower that grows up from the soil…
will all one day wither and return to the same dirt,
to the same plot,
to the same grave,
to the same entropy,
to the same final resting place –

Scott Thomas Outlar survived both the fire and the flood...barely. Now he dances with celebratory fervor while waiting on the next round of chaos to commence, spending the hours flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River while laughing at and/or weeping over the existential nature of life. Links to his chapbook and other published work can be found at 17numa.wordpress.com.

1 comment:

  1. What I love about your poetry, Scott, is that it exhibits rawness in its purest form.