when my mind is free-floating
I always take the long way home
the route secures a path for itself
disclosing what’s on my mind
the long way is a method for discovery
an interval to unravel the knotted twine
most of the time.
The cabby’s black eyes bounce
between the car-clogged street
and his rearview.
My family? In Palestine?
Are they all right?
Chopped to bits,
my question hangs between
his swaying beads and me.
See what I have seen,
his eyes grip mine.
Grandfather – in his hut.
My father – in our yard.
An uncle – on the road.
One shot. One shot. One shot.
Soldiers laugh. Children cry.
How can we be all right?
All I wanted was a Yes.
A chat about
the desert’s hot and cold,
a father herding goats,
a mother raising bread and sons.
I wanted pleasantries
to pass the time.
Not the cruel thrift of war.
A thousand lights turn green
before the practicality
of luggage, tickets, fare.
Port of Authority, he smiles,
unwinding from the driver’s seat.
I fumble through my wallet’s folds
and double his gratuity –
admitting only to myself,
I should not ask
until I want to know.
How is the grand mad
world treating you today?
Have you been invited
to its tea?
Will you sit down
and drink from the cup
that is sweet
bitter
or a little bit of both?
What if our feet, with
comfortable cacophony, fell
forward together
and what if our minds, at
one time, tuned to each
other so that upon parting
lips we finished each other’s
thoughts, feelings, even will,
always moving forward
always gaining ground.
This is my poem
not of love or loss
or all those common
tropes
but of Wednesday morning
birdsong
too much caffeine not
enough rest
uncertain promise
of what will come next.
I made
the statement
uttered
the question
a slip
of the tongue
a remark
sliding off the
hand
another question
lands splat
shouldn’t have
asked.
Oligarchy is a type
where foolish men
sit on a hype
and murderously
use the divinity of rogues.
I wonder, it still exists
in the domains of anarchy.
A fool surrounded by
coterie of fools.
Crumble the elephant
was neighbour fluke lent,
bicycle mirror pot
spring off the clown tin,
Washington house ply.
Harvest the Autumn
red leaves are falling
down from the branches
to whitewash the season
come sing
come dance
come play the game
Lake glistening crystal
blue shining bright eyes
reflect the passion
of living a real life
the truth
the love
a path into peace
—–
Scott Thomas Outlar lives simply in the suburbs, spending his time
writing essays, poetry, rants, and prose-fusion screeds dedicated to
the Phoenix Generation. He can be reached at 17Numa@gmail.com.