Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, and books can be found. Since the summer of 2014, his work has appeared in more than 250 literary venues, both in the United States and internationally, and has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize on three occasions. His poetry has been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Persian, and Italian. Scott is a member of the Southern Collective Experience, appearing regularly on their radio show, Dante’s Old South, which is broadcast by NPR/WUTC from Chattanooga, Tennessee. Scott serves as an editor for The Blue Mountain Review, Walking Is Still Honest Press, The Peregrine Muse, and Novelmasters. He has been a weekly contributor to the Dissident Voice Sunday Poetry Page for the past three years.
Songs of a Dissident (Transcendent Zero Press, 2015)
Chaos Songs (Weasel Press, 2016)
Happy Hour Hallelujah (CTU Publishing, 2016)
Poison in Paradise (Alien Buddha Press, forthcoming in 2017)
Selected Performances:
Visions of Verse – June 2017
Collective Sessions – May 2017
Shorter University – November 2016
Allatoona Book Festival – October 2016
Payne-Corley House – August 2016
Selected Interviews:
The Writer’s Space – February 2017
Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine – February 2017
Duane’s PoeTree – September 2016
The Daily Poet Site – August 2016
Geosi Reads – January 2016
Dissident Voice – December 2015
Selected Reviews:
Happy Hour Hallelujah – GloMag book of the month (January 2017)
Chaos Songs – Adam Levon Brown (September 2016)
Songs of a Dissident – Asian Signature by Bhaskaranand Jha Bhaskar
Songs of a Dissident – Ragazine by Heath Brougher
Songs of a Dissident – Tuck Magazine by Sunil Sharma

New Speak (Sowing Season)



Some people

try to kill two birds

with one stone


but I’m far more interested

in planting two seeds

at the same time


Revelations in the Marrow



The vastness of your scope

as I stare into the sky

reveals itself here and there

with glimpses into the absolute glimmer,

yet the mystery remains ineffable

in a context beyond that which

my primitive consciousness can grasp,

and I’m beginning to understand

that the seduction of your existential aloofness

is part and parcel

to the inherent romance in this experience of life.


I cannot come to know you fully

in the spaces of my mind,

but I can feel you in my guts,

in my heart, in my veins,

through my blood, in my bones,

down to the marrow.


These two open eyes

cannot gleam your greatness,

but when they are closed

I can see dimensions

beyond this physical plane of existence,

and I can sense the raw power

which pulses from your source

as it radiates outward

to be divined by those who truly seek.


The names which you have been called by

throughout the ages

mean nothing to me at this point –

simple words babbled from broken tongues

cannot capture the purity of your meaning;

it is your essence

to which I am addicted,

and I will never cease

reaching toward your unconditional love

until every urgent craving in my soul

has been satiated by your presence.


Transcending Definitions 



Art is not an institution…

it is an inner fire

born out of those

whose eyes pierce deeply

into hidden burning beauty.


Art is not a class taught by Academia…

it is a holy vibration

pulsing through the veins

of those who sense the truth

of this world’s perfect purity.


Art is not a transaction…

it is a soulful expression

that has no choice

but to be released

as a reflection of the Source.


Art is not a sales pitch…

it is an intense emotion

coupled with a vision

of crystalline transcendence

that ruptures open new dimensions.


Art is not yet ready for the grave…

it is a raging protest

against the mortal flesh

that sings the sweetest melody

about overcoming life’s suffering.


Numbers Game



Let’s stay awake

through all hours of the night,

here with the pillows,

and talk about heavy subjects

such as whether or not

soulmates actually exist;




let’s get sloppy drunk

to receive the revelation

that the sky is set to fall

in eleven hours.


Age is just a number,

it’s true…

until it kills you.


Platitudes and empty promises

are not one and the same.

I’ve consumed them both in triple doses.

One keeps me high as a kite

most of the time,

and the other always

leaves me in the lurch.


Prophecies and hand-me-downs

predict a righteous future.

I saw you up there screaming for your silver.

Even if you collect a pile

of jewels and gold,

you’ll still be starving and cold

by the time you taste your grave.



Choke Hold



Up on the steep roof

blowing leaves from the gutter

I come to realize

an appreciation

of just how precious

and precarious

every single step in life is

One slip

might mess you up


Walking along beside the street

watching cars pass in the cold of night

I get a craving

for some fresh air

not just stale smoke

tailpipe smog fest

One breath

might seize the lungs


Staring straight at the TV screen

going numb in every neuron

I found a trance

with the program

turn my head off

and get sucked in

to the shallow waves

One hour

might drain all soul


Sitting down for a warm meal

dinner table with the heat on

I know it’s true

that the energy used

to keep me safe from cold

comes at the sad expense

of stealing Earth’s black gold

One drill

might shift the plates


Catching flak in my own mind

for creature comforts of the modern life

It’ll drive you mad trying to save the world

it’s all illusion, Lord, just lay me down


Sleeping soundly between satin sheets

snug and cozy carefree nonchalance

I paid my dues throughout the day

won’t wear a millstone through the night





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