The VGP Literate No. 11

Pressurized Gravity


Born under a velvet-lined purple sky
after revolving inwardly within a chaotic womb
in fluids of the River Tao symmetry, a shining babe emerges in flashes of
neon radiance; aligned geometrically in
vital waters and then spit out violently to evolve
with enough destructive urges in tow to reform paradise; a warrior of truth
enters the garden; thrust into an ongoing makeshift plan,
constantly progressing without much thought given beforehand.
Space and time creak as the forces of creation exert their pressure.
A swampy marshland, situated far beyond the forest of green trees
that burn upon the slightest touch by torched fingers, bends seductively
as the path is beaten out beneath heavily trampling feet.

Calcified water cells and the inferno induced prismatic light
hypnotize seven layers of hypocrisy using the
sordid, occulted knowledge pertaining to acid rain
that sings as a siren unto scorched skin about atrophied wisdom.

One lonely minute remains in which to think about
the oncoming disaster of a holy drought; the clouds disperse and drift into the silent
ether, never to grant another sweet kiss to the waiting land below.
No more flooding oxygen remains in the withered atmosphere
to fend off the attacks of stick figure death dementia.
The huddled masses are forced to fight off raging devils and their
blasphemous gods with a whip in the sanctified, ceremonial
place of primal worship; nature gasps inside the spitfire circle where the mob sacrifices
the spirit-head and sorts out the remains of the deceased once the dust and ash trickles down from the heavens like manna.

Reason flows slowly in distorted waves of plasma, revolving
around the cycle’s centrifugal pain in a desperate, existential search for
meaning and logic, seeking to call home the star seed energy.
After the nebula bursts into a thousand points of chaos, the cards
fall to the table; five aces are folded, one right after the other,
as the scared bluff of the higher dimensions cannot garner
the strength to make a proper ante; all bets are off; the center cannot hold.

Scott Thomas Outlar lives a simple life in the suburbs, spending the days flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River, laughing at life’s existential nature, and writing prose-fusion poetry dedicated to the Phoenix Generation.  His words have appeared recently in venues such as Midnight Lane Boutique, Helix Magazine, The Chaffey Review, Siren, Section 8, Mad Swirl, and Dissident Voice.  More of Scott’s work can be found at

The VGP Literate No. 10

From the Garden

I come in from the garden and I’m covered
in slugs. Tiny slabs of snot with antennae waving
slowly moving over my sandaled
feet, pausing in confusion at trying to pass
a particularly thick black ankle hair
navigating the rough etched surface
of a heavy Tibetan silver bracelet.
I don’t touch my hair because
I don’t want to know they’re there, wrapped in tangles
dreadlocks with chewy centers.

I pull my clothes off by the washing machine
and start the hot rinse cycle immediately, reconciling
my guilt at running the washing machine
with only two items of clothing in it
with images of hordes of horrible soft bodies
tumbling through the soapy water with my clothes
hopefully boiled alive.


the puzzle that makes up our neighborhood
I will never be able to stand the empty look
they wiped away every trace of you and your family.

the people who move into your empty house
don’t belong here in the puzzle that makes up our neighborhood
they wiped away every trace of you and your family
what happen to all the pieces?

the day came, moving trucks pulled up to take away
boxes and boxes that belonged to people I knew
and I will never see again

the empty windows of your house.

Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes for the Minneapolis school district and writing classes at The Loft Literary Center. Her poetry has recently appeared in Hawai’i Pacific Review, Slant, and The Tampa Review, and she is the 2011 recipient of the Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her most recent published books are “Walking Twin Cities” and “Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch.”

The VGP Literate No. 9

To Slip Between Stones


as water/with sea snakes on surface
Loch Ness one dragon’s breath away
Death in  a smooth skin fang sac
Toxicity assured/chill contact
Our ancestors small when they rose tall serpents
Now garter and grass snakes,smaller than lizards
Milk them for venom vaccine
Cobra in basket rising like smoke
Our fear returns when we see their shape
snakes on a plane, in the grass, on the road
One on one-we are always alone
Snakes swim in swamps/waters their home
Rainbow Serpent waterhole/billabong
Death is the skin of a snake moved on


Spirit Thom is a world-poet troubadour, and purveyor of the arts. He resides in Austin, TX. His collection of poetry, “Future Dreaming,” is forthcoming from Virgogray Press.