by Scott Thomas Outlar
One life is all we get, eh? Sweet. That's all I bargained for when I came here. Got the rough patches out of the way up front in the years when I didn't know any better. Played five aces once the pot got fat. Holy roller screaming hallelujah in the midnight silhouette. Now it's a lounge act until the grave yawns. Once the flip has been switched even the pain becomes fun. No cause to ever get upset or bent out of shape. Wouldn't look good on the final scorecard. Wouldn't weigh well against the feather. Judge me now. Judge me here. Judge me later. Judge me six ways to Sunday. Judge me with your perfect, sinless, righteous decree. The truth is not a wave. The truth is not a fire. The truth is not an arrow. The truth is an Apocalypse ... an unveiling of what has always been. There is nothing left that I need. All that remains is a primal desire. All I want is everything ... hope that's not too much to ask ... to seek ... to find ... to take ... just to give it all away ... to know the bliss of nothingness ...
SCOTT THOMAS OUTLAR survived the chaos of both the fire and the flood...barely. Now he spends the hours flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River while laughing at and/or weeping over life's existential nature. His words have appeared in venues such as The First Line, Harbinger Asylum, Yellow Chair Review, Dissident Voice, and Belle Reve Literary Journal. Links to his published works can be found at 17numa.wordpress.com.