Zombie Logic From Thomas L. Vaultonburg, Outsider Poet: The First Ever Zombie Night

It was such a great night. Zombie Night is a hit!! And more than that it's something I wanted and stuck with and made some really good friends and in the end we made it work. That feels really good.

But I have to admit I feel like I'm in over my head. I'm worn out. And I've now rewritten this blog five times and that is my point... I can't say what I want. All winter my family could feel the negativity from certain people who wished us to fail. Yet they continued to show up and be negative and drain us of our energy.

Then I was fortunate enough to meet a group of people who are positive and creative and share similar interests and beliefs as I do. And for some reason I have to hold everyone at arm's length.

I've been riding my bike to work lately. The trees and flowers are marvelous this year. That ten minutes on the bike is the only time I see them.

Everything I do affects people and I'm not comfortable with that. I wanted to say something. And I shouldn't. But I want to. And i will... I saw someone last week who made my stomach do that thing... someone I'd been in contact with for a while(on My Space, naturally) and she finally showed up at Castaways. And she was beautiful. Then she showed up two nights later. This is where I made the tragic mistake of text messaging her and telling her I liked her. I never do anything crazy like that. I know it's a death sentence. But I did it.

So, there's that. Jean Cocteau once said poets must be like detectives who see everything and maintain the ability to say anything but never must be found out. It's the power of being a poet. I have lost that power. I can't say everything. I can't remain secret. I have no confidant right now. Anything I say can and might be used against me, or even worse my family.

I don't have a firm grasp on what it is I wanted to say. Or maybe I have already said it.

My least favorite sound in the world is birds chirping to herald the morning. It means night is over. Midnight to four a.m. are my favorite hours. They have been taken from me.

Tomorrow will be Wednesday and the bar will be virtually empty again. But I will still have to be there. It's no easier to serve one person than 100.

Five a.m. is my least favorite hour. The world belongs to them again.

I don't want to go to sleep. I wanted to hold on to some part of a night that was a personal triumph for me. I think I feel something and every time that happens it hurts. I can sleepwalk through the rest of it. Whatever. Pain, hunger, endless disappointment, so what. But at the first possibility that things might be good I recoil. Because I know it's a tease. I know it's a ruse. I know it will be taken from me. I know whatever the good thing is it's not meant for me. And I'm alright with that...

As long as someone doesn't walk into a room who makes my stomach do that thing. Now I will be in hell soon whereas normally it's just middle of the road aches and pains and run of the mill disappointment after disappointment.

Anyway, there are those birds. I'll give it back to them now.