Three Poems || Scott Thomas Outlar

Split
 
I would rip the eyelids
off of ignorance
if it were
within my power
 
but I am weak
of mortal flesh
so I just keep singing
and pray peace prospers
 
There are two suns, two moons,
two stars, two supernovas
in the sky tonight
 
There is wrong and right
 
There is fight or flight
 
There is a blueprint
churning cosmos
all the while

 
The Good Old Days
 
 
We always rode
the late night trains
 
or walked
by moonlight
to the next hit
in the distance
 
Star dust fever
was an addiction
 
Salivating tongues
licked the universal flux
and synchronicity
was as common
as the sun
rising each morning
 
We huddled close
to the junkies
 
or kissed the streets
and the golden feet
of homeless gurus
singing silent stories
long forgotten
by civilization
 
Central heating
was our savior
 
and we slept like babies
medicated with a pacifier of gin
 

Scribbling Notes on the Crest of a Wave

I want to write my way
to the gates of heaven
and have God say
what a good job I’ve done
 
but all these letters
and numbers
and words
and signs
can never bring salvation
 
it’s all a matter of time
 
I want to walk my way
to the edge of tomorrow
and have life say
what a good day we’ll have
 
when all these plants
and flowers
and fruits
and vines
offer of their nectar
 
it’s all a bleeding of mind
 
I want to work my way
to the height of transcendence
and have love say
what a good climb to take
 
as all these tests
and trials
and floods
and fires
lead up to the summit
it’s all a spreading of wings

 
Numbers Game
 
 
Let’s stay awake
through all hours of the night
here with the pillows
and talk about heavy subjects
such as whether or not
soulmates actually exist;
 
or
 
let’s get sloppy drunk
to receive the revelation
that the sky is set to fall
in eleven hours.
 
Age is just a number,
it’s true…
until it kills you.
 
Platitudes and empty promises
are not one and the same.
I’ve consumed them both in triple doses.
One keeps me high as a kite
most of the time,
and the other always
leaves me in the lurch.
 
Prophecies and hand-me-downs
predict a righteous future.
I saw you up there screaming for your silver.
But even if you collect a pile
of jewels and gold,
you’ll still be starving and cold
by the time you taste your grave.