Scott Thomas Outlar- A Poem

A Return to Glory

The Winter chill is a velvet blanket

draped over my skin

to bring out the raw frigid emotions

that return my ancestral memories

to the days when my forefathers

survived in caves at night after slaughtering

large beasts in the field by day and then feasting

upon the roasted flesh from the fire

that was sparked with the flame of evolutionary ingenuity.

A part of me longs for a return

to those harrowing, threat-filled, simpler times

when adrenaline and testosterone

ruled the roost, and Man

clawed his way to the top of the food chain

one sacrificial ceremony at a time.

I long to gnaw on the fresh bones

of a woolly mammoth brought down

after days on end spent tracking its herd’s location.

I long to thrust the hand carved spear into its side.

I long to shred the fur from its skin.

I long to wear the wool

and dance to the wild rhythmic beats

that only the shamans and madmen 

who are connected to deceased spirits

can hear as the strange song pours forth

from a holy synchronized force

that flows with an energy beyond temporal understanding.

I long for the primal rage and bloodlust.

I long to let loose from these lungs

with a warning to all challengers

that the King Ape has ascended,

and that all who are not with me

have become potential enemies or prey.

The Winter chill through my open window

disturbs my furnace heated comfort,

arousing all types of preternatural instincts to surface

inside the safety of this suburban home. 

Bio:

Scott Thomas Outlar flows and fluxes with the Tao River, gazes at stars, laughs at life's existential problems, dances to the rhythms of the celestial song, and writes prose-fusion poetry dedicated to the Phoenix Generation.  His work appears weekly at Dissident Voice, and recently in venues such as Medusa's Kitchen, Section 8 Magazine, Corner Club Press, W.I.S.H, and The Kitchen Poet.  He can be reached at 17Numa@gmail.com.