Scott Thomas Outlar is originally from Atlanta, Georgia. He now lives and writes in Frederick, Maryland. He is the author of seven books. His work has been nominated multiple times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the Hope Anthology of Poetry from CultureCult Press as well as the 2019-2023 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. He has been a weekly contributor at Dissident Voice for the past eight and a half years. Selections of his poetry have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Azerbaijani, Bengali, Cherokee, Dutch, French, Hindi, Italian, Kurdish, Malayalam, Persian, Serbian, and Spanish. More about Outlar’s work can be found at 17Numa.com.
In the Age of Bloodletting
Everything in that period was designed to be explosive Lord, leave a sweet verse on the whisper of my breath Powder keg cancer in the lungs a sci-fi radiation warzone What was done unto one was done unto all not a lick of care in their chemical kisses Born with a fever into a fiery vision a streak of rebellion emblazoned on spine Taught me how to judge a fair story and leave juries hung when stones are involved Small gods upon earth and many fathers in heaven these are the trials you’ll tie to your tale No one else kept the score so steady or held wisdom safely in the echoes of silence
And Streets Lined with Gold
The homeless poet stood outside a bar in the cold ranting to everyone who walked past He waved a stack of papers that were handed out to anyone who showed even the slightest hint of interest in receiving his occultic wisdom He said the pamphlets were free but those with half a heart would give him a few bucks or at least enough spare change to buy a cup of coffee He was a guru in his own peculiar way and his words were laced with a message of apocalyptic strangeness – full of velvet angels with dark chocolate wings descending from heaven to punish the normal and bring chaos to the meek He was all mixed up inside but that was his karmic role to play and it was perfectly beautiful – whether he found a bed for the night or wound up sleeping in the street it was all going to turn out okay because the heralded angels were soon to arrive either way
Prelude to a Blood Moon Eclipse
An angel, a toadstool, and bamboo on the side of the street spin those three through a dream cycle come spring and see what swirls/ blossoms/ burns/ erupts/ or soothes with salve What you need in your life, sonny boy, is a little bit of ambition at least trimmed around the edges so your core can shine
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