Scott Thomas Outlar- A Poem

To and Fro

  

One step outside

where the wind whistles and howls,

blistering my naked ears –

I’ve not worn headphones today;

I want to hear the agony

along with the ecstasy

of every sound the dying earth makes

as Winter scrapes away the leaves

and creates skeletons all around.

One step onto the street,

paved in dark asphalt murder

with white lines of ghost blood

running straight as an arrow down the middle –

that’s where I stay, in balance,

in rhythm, with harmonic gestures

guiding each footfall as I dance

through the days of desolation and destruction.

One step onto the main road,

machines of raging thunder

roaring by at a steady clip

upon black rubber bullets to nowhere –

a smog in the air, a gasoline gulp,

a hazy fog of collective consciousness

hanging palpably above the scene

carrying all the lost dreams and remorse

of a million daily commuters

dragging their half-dead carcasses back home

where maybe there’s a lukewarm plate of dinner

waiting on the table for them to scarf down

before hitting the hay and sleeping away the pain.

One step into the park

where the air is fresh and vital,

oxygenating my blood, clearing my mind

and detoxifying my polluted lungs.

Walk by the lake where turtles

bath in the sun upon rocks

and ducks leisurely paddle along

with orange webbed feet beneath the water.

Birds chirp in the trees

but get drowned out by a plane above

as it pours out trails of toxic whatever –

so much for the fresh oxygen,

soon enough it’ll be laced with heavy metals

for a neuron path lobotomy.

One step into the woods,

escaping under the cover of a tall rise forest.

Shade from the sun

and a brief respite

from the workaday madness and the incessant drumbeat

toward a job, toward a war, toward a drug,

toward a gadget, toward a television screen,

toward an election, toward a sales-pitch savior,

toward whatever new, trendy, topnotch,

fashionable fad has stolen the hearts and minds

of a zombie population this particular week.

One step at a time,

retracing my path

back to where I began –

nothing seems to matter anymore.

I’ve simply seen too much of it all,

time and time again, ad infinitum

through the eternal recurrence

as the cycles of history replay on repeat.

Not ennui or apathy.

Not enlightenment or nirvana.

Just detached observation

of a terrible and awesome existence

moving one step at a time

and going somewhere.

Bio:

Scott Thomas Outlar dances beneath the stars to the sweet sound of nature's celestial song, laughing all the while at life's existential problems, and waiting for the next round of chaos to commence.  He recently took the plunge into the world of social media by creating 17numa.wordpress.com where more of his writing can be found.