Scott Thomas Outlar

A Genesis Story

The first wine
I ever tasted
was across the street
from my childhood home.
I was probably ten years old,
give or take one or two.
The wine was white
and came from a box
kept in the fridge.
It was my buddy’s Mom’s,
and he
had already tried it,
I’m sure,
many times before
while she wasn’t around.
He called it pee-pee wine.
Not a very appetizing title,
but I drank some nonetheless.
I don’t remember
thinking much about it.
It didn’t taste particularly good.
I didn’t get any buzz.
I didn’t even know
you were supposed
to get a buzz from the stuff.
The next time
I drank alcohol
it was as a freshman in high school,
and I took sips
of whiskey, triple sec, schnapps, brandy,
and other assorted liquors
from my parent’s cabinet
while they were at
the varsity football game
which I didn’t give
a damn about.
Me and my friend Jeremy
drank liberally,
putting different colored liquids
over ice
and tossing them back straight.
We danced.
We listened to music.
We talked shit.
I ran my mouth about how much I
liked the girl down the street.
My sister was there with us,
probably thinking the situation quite strange,
but also probably happy
that we were giving her attention.
I wasn’t as good
to my sister
as I should have been in those years,
but that’s because
I wasn’t very good
to anyone
during that time.
There is a tape recording
of our conversation
from that day
in a box somewhere
that has survived
all my moves.
I guess I must have thought
back then
that whatever I did
was important enough to
record for posterity.
I guess
I still do.
The next time
I drank alcohol
was probably
when I started
storing vodka
and Southern Comfort
under my bed
as a junior
in high school.
It didn’t take
many sips
to get me hooked.
I’ve had a dealer
from way back.
I would play Nintendo
and take swigs from the bottle
in between levels
of Mario Bros.
Not Super Mario Bros,
but the original game –
which I could get to
very high levels on,
which meant I could get
very drunk
as a teenager
in a room
and it was beautiful
and tragic
and insane.
Well, cut to now
and it is
around two decades later,
but I’m in
the same room
drinking alone.
Only this time
it is beautiful
and not tragic at all
because there is a purpose
behind every sip
and every word
that it produces.
Some people
might call it a habit.
might call it an addiction.
might say it’s in my genes,
for my Grandfather
drank quite a bit
even before I was seeded
in an egg,
or even before the seed
that seeded me
had been seeded
in an egg.
Some might say
this stuff runs deep
in my veins.
I’m ok
with whatever
anyone has to say,
because the only thing that matters
is whether
I succeed
as an artist.
The wine
is a blood brother.
The wine
is a god
that Dionysus drinks.
The wine
is a hope
of writing one more good line
before the entire world
crashes down
in a sudden spark of black death.
The wine
is a fire in my blood,
a rush through my synapses,
a love in my veins,
a hardening of my kidneys,
a leech in my liver.
The wine is a force
that rivals almost any other.
The wine is the blood of Christ.
The wine is a sacrament
to all the holiness
in a world full of terrors.
The wine is a device
used in poetry
to make things sound interesting.
The wine is a reason
to stay up late
and pour forth emotion
until every last
ounce is drained.
The wine is a kiss,
a caress,
a killing comfort,
a cancer,
a crutch,
a calcification of glands,
a corridor
that leads down
hallways that I’d never explore
if not for the buzz.
The wine is this right now.
The wine is the love
letter I sent you
before the world died.
The wine
is my cross
to bear
with sacrificial tendencies
until the millstone drowns.
The wine
intensifies the music,
the novel,
the movie,
the conversation,
the mundane moments.
The wine is a flag
I wave,
not necessarily with pride,
but simply because I can.
The wine
is a blue ribbon
that I do it better
than almost
anyone alive.
Cheers to the wine.

Scott Thomas Outlar survived both the fire and the flood - now he dances in celebration while waiting on the next round of chaos to commence. Otherwise, he lives a relatively simple life, spending the hours flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River, laughing at life's existential problems, and writing prose-fusion poetry dedicated to the Phoenix Generation. His debut chapbook A Black Wave Cometh is forthcoming from Dink Press. More of Scott's work can be found at

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The views and opinions expressed throughout belong to the individual artists and may or may not coincide with those of the other artists (or editors) represented within the magazine. Hobo Camp Review supports a free-for-all atmosphere of artistic expression, so enjoy the poetry, fiction, opinions, and artwork within, read with an open mind, and comment wisely. Thanks for stopping by the Camp!