Friday, January 30, 2015

Scott Thomas Outlar- A Poem

An Ode to McKenna
Under the brilliant stars
in the middle of an open field
all alone
pondering existence
like some existential psych class
never bothered to attend
or some philosophy exam
never cared to be graded on.
Neither, though, could prepare
for what happens next –
these types of close encounters
aren’t graded on a curve.
Red and green track lights
open wide to flood the area,
spraying their rays, searching, seeking…something.
Sweet Holy Jesus!
Was the Revelation real after all?
Is the chariot coming
to take us all to Heaven?
Fat chance, sucker –
no such luck on this Winter’s eve.
Slack jawed, mouth agape, staring
at the beast of a machine
that is taking its precious time
to descend upon the scene.
Hovering above the grass,
a gate of incandescent energy particles
drips down like a waterfall,
somehow becoming corporeal in the process.
Who in the hell will ever believe
that the boy who always cried wolf
has finally seen a genuine miracle?
Or is it a death sentence
being issued by some strange denizens
from a far flung planet?
Answers will come soon enough it seems
as little brain-like beings
with chicken wings flapping
come hopping down the bridge,
in some twisted tongue
not understood at all.
Where’s the damned space age device
they pop on the ear
so all languages are instantly translated?
Where’s the Type-1 greeting
that such an important meeting
between two civilizations is befitting of?
Not here, Bubba.
Not on this strange night.
The chicken brain something-or-others
circle around and start dancing
in some type of weird voodoo ritual.
A hallucinatory rhythm
pops open the pineal gland,
expanding consciousness
down to a fine point microcosm of reality.
One tiny dot from which all creation explodes.
Geometric patterns pulsate in the crisp air.
Shapes and sounds forming out of the nothingness.
Little elves and goblin creatures
jibber-jabber in bizarre musical tones,
beyond the realm of simple consonants and vowels,
which are intuitively felt and understood
on some instinctive primal channel.
Wavelength frequency vibrations of chaos
coalesce cohesively into an ordered symmetry
of crystallized mandala Zen reverberations.
Body shock and mind fuck.
So this is how creation began?
This is what the Big Bang felt like?
Life’s path, purpose and meaning all bubble up
to the surface level in an A-ha moment.
Musical notes streamlining from out the
jellylike brains of the far-out creatures of
wherever, whatever, however…
Questions are meaningless in the shakedown
as everything synthesizes to make perfect sense
for a split-second flash of raw awesome perfection,
then, poof, gone, nowhere, nothing…
Eyes pop open, rain is drizzling from the clouds above.
No new friends anywhere to be seen.
Fuck, was it all just a dream?
Nah, it couldn’t be,
so it must have been
that second puff of DMT.

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