Author of the Month: Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar originally hails from Lilburn, Georgia. He now resides and writes in Frederick, Maryland. 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. Selections of his poetry have been translated and published in 15 languages. More about Outlar’s work can be found at 17Numa.com.

Weeble Wobble

We tasted the black

      of seemingly spent orbs

   an amalgamation of spheres

             wielding cherub swords

       in triangulated focus

   & the syrupy center

             lodged at the depth of abyss

      proved an archaic truth

            that there is life left yet

   hiding somewhere 

               behind those peepers

We were numbed

        by the haste

    with which they clouded us

        in a smoky haze

We were summoned to

        a dazed chamber of grace

  & inundated with explanations

            about the theory of madness

We were fashioned

      by the hymns

  of a discordant choir

            with tongues laced

     in languages of metallic

                       mandala chaos

We were given unto

    the fits of a fiery passion

  

   poised at the precipice

      to receive fulfilled prophecies

   of great change heralding

            annihilation

       or integration into a slipstream

                   altering perception

                          at the roots

We were organized as atoms

        by cellular osmosis

                at the soup’s boiling point

          where genes swarm

                   in kinetic creative frenzy

                               a bit of a tizzy

                           when spells start spinning

We were promised a turn

          on the merry-go-spiral

a crimson carousel 

a chariot of bedazzled gold

           churning wheels within wheels

   

   & blood unto dust

   & marrow back to dirt

   

   & all the finer accoutrements 

                  provided along a ferry

                         headed straight 

       into the heart of the sun

We were shown the

                 melted plasma

       of entropy’s empty dissolution

  & licked three times

                 before crunching hard

           into the owl’s forlorn wisdom

***

A Scarf Upon Each Spike

Mouthing the design

with a silver tongue

agape and sighing into the breeze

a breath resourced in reason

Trusting the process

of Tao entering dragon

chasing down the grand finale

one scale at a time

Winter’s spell all-becoming

last proud gasp at intermezzo

now the sting isn’t quite as sharp

as the worm and season turn

Seven patterns etched in fabric

woven in fur around warm collar

turned up like Elvis, Numa, and West

but only two wore it well

***

 

Instant Gratification

Lately, it feels

like an open pulse

from source portal

is dancing with plasma

across electric wires

Magnetic sphere triangulated

rolling waves of the spiral’s transmission

Grasp with two open palms

the lines of time etched strongly

able minded for the transformation

The eternal Tao spinning in silence

whooshing now with the winter’s wind

That’s not just tinnitus 

humming inside the frenzy

Baby, we’re in the golden age

a symphony of the stars in love

***

 

Pulse Electric

dust of seven ages

squeezed like fresh daisies

with centrifugal gears

itching as scratched platitudes

in sore eyes

sordid sight, first rhyme I

digest tonight

and fade one degree deeper

into a feeling of comfort

two shades off the beaten path

of numb tingling and wizened orbit

a leaf, fluttering, freefall

enter the wishing well of dandelion portal

now ripped through the great divide

neuron cabinet whips out archaic relics and recipes

stir up divergent opinions in the pot

while vultures and ghouls point shadowy fingers

if you learn to grow through disillusion

the jeweled net of contentment stretches out wider

during novel periods of arcane virtue

as all the perching peacocks of inverted righteousness

slip from precarious angles of moral hypocrisy

crumbling into the heap of virtuous stones

they’ve been tossing over the spit-stained ledge

tear ducts barren

cut with shattered glass

sands of cultural hours

turned over, spilling tide

on tip of tongue

dots trace blood

taste of change and copper sizzle

***

---

Setu, May 2025