Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Scott Thomas Outlar- A Poem

3, 2, 1…
Let it burn
until all that is left
is a black crisp
of dehydrated exoskeleton jerky.
What do I care?
I did not create this place.
I did not ask to play this game.
I did not stuff the coal shafts.
I did not dig the oil wells.
I did not clamor for the goldmines.
I did not manifest destiny
across the desert
with a mind obsessed
on material diversions of the flesh.
Let it burn
until the stars in the sky
have nothing left
to shine down upon.
Let it burn
until the sun extinguishes
from its own
existential exhaustion.
What do I care?
I didn’t build the Model-T.
I didn’t pave the asphalt road.
I didn’t plan the concrete jungle.
I didn’t send the ships
across the sea
with hopes of New Atlantis
in the distance.
Let it burn
until Sherman’s fire
pales like a glow light in comparison.
Let it burn
until the Apocalypse
rises up in molten magma
through volcanic outburst tantrums.
What do I care?
I didn’t write the Holy Verses.
I wasn’t the one
inspired by God
to lie false prophecies
into the hearts and minds of Man.
I didn’t slaughter the natives.
I didn’t enslave other races.
I didn’t stomp on Pagan grounds.
I didn’t erect churches
atop conquered lands.
I didn’t start the wars.
I don’t need to finish the job
that other animals began.
Let it burn
until the flag is stripped
of blue and white stars and stripes
and all that remains is red.
Let it burn
as a beacon
atop the flaming hill
as a lesson about the fall.
What do I care?
I didn’t taste the forbidden fruit.
I didn’t kiss the serpent.
I didn’t fuck the liar.
I didn’t drink the venom.
I didn’t suck the poison.
I didn’t breed the cancer.
I didn’t dig the shallow grave.
Let it burn
until the bones are ash
and the marrow evaporates
into a chemical combustion revelation.
Let it burn.
Let it cry.
Let it whine.
Let it bitch.
Let it moan.
What do I care?
I didn’t promise it
a single damn thing.
I didn’t ask it to love me.
I didn’t need it to want me.
I didn’t beg it to birth me.
I didn’t buy the ticket.
I didn’t sign up for the ride.
Let it burn
until the plastic faces
are melted
on the Sunset Strip
and the haughty egos
catch flame on Boardwalk.
Let it burn
from the outside in
so the rotten core
is the last space to smolder into oblivion.
What do I care?
I didn’t come here to save the world.
I didn’t offer a quick fix resolution.
Let it burn.
The Phoenix is waiting in the wings.

"3,2,1..." originally appeared in Burningword Literary Journal

Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa where links to his published poetry and fiction can be found. The site also features a list of links to over 150 literary venues.

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