Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, and interviews can be found. His chapbook "Songs of a Dissident" was released in 2015 through Transcendent Zero Press and is available on Amazon. His poetry collections "Happy Hour Hallelujah" (CTU Publishing) and "Chaos Songs" (Weasel Press) are both forthcoming in 2016.
|Courtesy of Indiana Voice Journal|
The Opening Salvo
Can’t be stopped. Won’t be stopped. Shall not be encumbered along the path toward transcendent evolutionary enlightenment.
Nothing can slow down the steamboat intensity of a reckless abandon once all the marbles have been intricately placed in the same basket alongside a nest full of painted eggs. Baker’s dozen. Scrambled to perfection. Who’s to say it’s reckless anyway? What judge would dare make such a presumptuously preposterous proclamation? There could be no worthier aspiration than to seek the most highly elevated levels of spiritual achievement while dwelling in this vessel of flesh, bone, and blood here in the physical realm of time and space.
Came from the source and eventually heading back. But while here, might as well make the most of it, eh? Might as well come to terms with the contracted experience and have a blast. Supernova launch pad love fest. So off I go. Into the unknown. Yet, when the systematized scientific explanation gets broken down to brass tacks, the truth is that the cosmic code is inherently writ upon the aura of DNA soul consciousness from the very beginning and just has to be transcribed and properly interpreted as the life experiences play out. Nothing happens that isn’t designed and destined to make us better. There is no occurrence that isn’t part of the fated course we are meant to take. The phantasmagoria is an alchemical amalgamation of building blocks and puzzle pieces playing out in real time, coming together, and merging in an orchestrated symphony which aptly describes the natural law process of higher order emerging from out of chaos.
Batter up. Here’s the pitch. Take a swing. Either hit or miss. Hero or the goat. It’s the bottom of the ninth. Two outs. Bases loaded. Full count. Down by three. Game seven of the World Series. The league’s all-time single season saves leader on the mound. Toes the rubber. Takes the sign. High stakes on the line. A million drunken souls in the bloated, lascivious, lecherous heart of Las Vegas are sitting at a bar, staring into the boob tube with bated breath, their life savings hanging in the balance, one way or the other. Could it be a K? Or a grand slam home run? Time will tell. Are you the pitcher or the batter? The bookie or the better? Or do you work for the house making the odds? Are you the handicap? Or the perfect health? Are you easy breezy breathing lungs? Or the black tar mucous hack? Are you a wheezing allergenic cough? Or a clean air meditative inhalation? Are you the big exhale and release of tension? Or the stressed out, uptight, ulcer forming runaway thought? Are you all of the above? Or none of what remains?
Can’t slow down. Won’t slow down. Full speed ahead when the light bulb flashes with the sudden epiphany that all paths lead to inner peace.
Rome wasn’t created in a day. Neither was the fallout from the decadence fully realized in a single night. Empirical evidence of an empire’s total collapse can take awhile to emerge from the muck-filled annals of history. The Akashic Records tell the tale. Full moon bounty with a laser sharp focus. Fevered intensity of a daydream coming true under the aligning stars. No artificial illumination in the general vicinity to eclipse the super solar atmosphere which rapidly relays multiplied algorithmic signals from Alpha Centauri back to the brain stems of Earth denizens.
Out on the peaceful lakefront, away from the rush hour traffic and skyscraper mentality of the mob majority, all is seen clearly above in the cool, crisp air by those with open eyes. As above, so below. The micro/macro synthesis of a synergistic cohesion emerges to lock in place the New Day and Age. Boomeranging from the physical to the spiritual on the drop of a dime. Lay your money down. Manufactured fiat currency won’t buy the salvation which your soul truly yearns for. Who knew that the federally reserved greenbacks would go out of fashion in such a hurry? Who could tell that the empire was built as a house of cards? Who understood that the inevitable collapse was foretold by those who rigged the system in the first place? Who had the inside info? Who was placing trades using a high frequency electronic budget scam? Who bankrupted with a false claim? Who taught the shysters how to act? Who lusted for the top level penthouse? Who was living in the alleyway on scraps? Who sucked out the worth of every last troy ounce? Who kissed the bag lady before her bones snapped from malnutrition? Who slept in the waterbed and who on the concrete? Who exploited the third world and whose stomach bulged when the drought came? Who developed the master plan for the master race? Who was just scrounging to get by day to day? Who fought wars over interpretations of the Godhead? Who was praying to the One force that encompasses All?
Better get your love together. Better open up your soul. All those hidden buried agendas are coming home to roost in the deep, dark, dank depths of consciousness. All the nooks and crannies where the ugly things dwell are being exposed. The storm came. The flood surged. The waves broke. The power went out on the collectivized grid. What matter your material possessions once the riots start? What can your pension fund buy when there’s no way to access the funds? What good is your stockpile now? How about those hordes of cash? Who cares about pieces of printed paper when the raging war is in high gear? Barter and trade makes a return. Better have that skill set primed and ready for survival. Can you sew a shirt? Can you cook a meal over an open flame? Can you till the land? Can you brave the cold? Can you build a shack out of downed tree logs? Can you skin a deer? Can you navigate by the north star? Did you brush up on your survival manual before the shit hit the fan? Did you read the final memo? Did you know the full extent of the prophecy? Did you hear about the revelation? Did you witness the parting of the clouds?
Can you taste the rain as it falls violently from the geologically engineered cloud cover? No acid left in the precipitation. It’s all accounted for and plugged into the retirement program. The vaccine hallucinations of mercury-induced lucid daydreams. Fly high on the wicked wings of blood intoxication. The corporate media mafia welfare drug-addled disillusion of a generation hooked on poisonous prescriptions writ by the previous generation of consumers that went through the same process of brainwash hysteria cycles on down the line and suffocates all hope of change. Over and over ad nauseam and infinitum. Etcetera.
The score was settling in on a scammed solution until salvation arrived with a heavy dose of the remedy. All natural. Straight from the garden. Grown with compassion and care. Hands in the dirt. Nutrients in the soil. Vitamins and minerals in the blood. Enzymes digest in the gut. The body heals itself. Cancer goes bye-bye. Greed head fascist machine collapses inward. Empire doomed. Beast decays. Vultures starved. Silence ensues. Curtains drawn. Crickets chirping. Audience looks around. Heads turn left and right. What just happened? The nightmare horror flick came abruptly to a halt. The pigeon-holed terror jihad lost its motivation. The non-compliant boycott bought up all the momentum. The stocks sold at a fraction of profitable percentage. Wall Street lost a fortune. The people inherited a bright future.
(Originally published in Dissident Voice)
~Scott Thomas Outlar
|"New Visions of Verse"|